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CHICAGO: 


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Idylwild Series. Vol. 1, No. Nov. 9, 1892. Issued Wekly. Annual Subscription, $26.00, 
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VICTORIA AT D AJAX, 


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Fencing With Shadows 



HATTIE TYNG GRISWOLD 


Author of *‘^Home Life of Great Authors f “ Waitiug On Desti- 
ny f '‘'‘Lucille and her Friends f "Apple Blossoms f etc. 


CHICAGO 

]VloRRiLL, Higgins & Co. 


) 

I ^ 



\ 


COPYRIGHT 

1892 

Hattie Tyng Griswold 



W, B. OONKICY CO., PRINTERS AND RINPl^RS, CHICAGO 


CONTENTS. 

Chapter. Page, 

I. A Sky Parlor 5 

II. At Klosterheim 16 

III. O’Sleary, the Sweater 22 

IV. The End of the Strike 31 

V. A Watch in the Night 46 

VI. A Morning Visit 52 

VII. The New Home 64 

VIII. In the City 70 

IX. The Palace of Art 80 

X. Lizelle and her Friends 91 

XI. One More Unfortunate 106 

XII. A September Day 117 

XIII. Tutor and Taught 127 

XIV. An Autumn Visit 137 

XV. Violet Lee .153 

XVI. A Quiet Day 168 

XVII. A New Life 182 

XVIII. Question and Answer 192 

XIX. The Two Portraits 203 

XX. Richard and His Work 217 

XXI. Victoria in the Great Storm 231 

XXII. Confidences and Revelations 240 

XXHI. Looking Backward 251 

XXIV. Fate and Faith 262 

XXV. Man*s Inhumanity to Man 270 

XXVI. An Awakening 280 

XXVII. The Dying of a Hope 291 

XXVIII. The Canopy of Sunshine 298 

XXIX. The Shadow Fencing Ends 311 

XXX. Ernest Early 327 

XXXI. A Night Ride 337 

XXXII. Repentance 349 

XXXIII. Expiation 366 

XXXIV. The Stir of Preparation 372 

XXXV. The Heart of Friendship 382 

XXXVI. The Fulfillment of Dreams 396 



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4 



A SONG FOR WOMEN. 


"Within a dreary, narrow room 
That looks upon a noisome street, 

Half fainting with the stifling heat 
A starving girl works out her doom. 

Yet not the less in God’s sweet air 
The little birds sing free of care. 

And hawthorns blossom everywhere. 

Swift, ceaseless toil scarce winneth bread; 
From early dawn till twilight falls. 

Shut in by four dull, ugly walls. 

The hours crawl round with murd’rous tread. 
And all the while in some still place. 
Where intertwining boughs embrace. 

The blackbirds build, time flies apace. 

With envy of the folk who die. 

Who may at last their leisure take. 

Whose longed-for sleep none roughly wake. 
Tired hands the restless needle ply. 

But far and wide in meadows green. 

The golden buttercups are seen. 

And reddened sorrel nods between. 

Too pure and proud to soil her soul. 

Or stoop to basely gotten gain. 

By days of changeless want and pain 
The seamstress earns a prisoner’s dole. 

While in the peaceful fields the sheep 
Feed, quiet; and through heaven’s blue deep 
The silent cloud-wings stainless sweep. 

3 


4 


A SONG FOR IVOMEN. 


And if she be alive or dead 

That weary woman scarcely knows, 

But back and forth her needle goes 
In tune with throbbing heart and head. 

Lo, where the leaning alders part, 

White blossomed swallows, blithe of heart, 
Above still waters skim and dart. 

O God in heaven! shall I, who share 
That dying woman’s womanhood. 

Taste all the summer’s bounteous good 
Unburdened by her weight of care? 

The white moon-daisies star the grass. 

The lengthening shadows o’er them pass; 
The meadow pool is smooth as glass." 


lA. Matheson^ in Macmillan' s Magazine. '\ 


FENCING WITH SHADOWS 


CHAPTER I 

A SKY PARLOR 

I beg the reader's pardon for introducing him 
abruptly into a garret. It is not a very pleasant 
thing to do, for the stairs are rickety and hard to 
climb — not to say dangerous — and in the semi- 
darkness even of day, the unwary have tripped 
here. But the dwellers in garrets get used to dark 
passages and tottering stairways, and are usually 
safe from falls of that nature. It is a worm-eaten 
and* crumbling old tenement at best, and the 
staircase is like the rest of the structure. 
Branching off from this main entrance, are many 
rooms on each of the several floors, occupied by 
families, or by lodgers who live here alone. It is 
by no means the worst of the tenement houses 
on this street of New York, but it is far worse than 
any of them should be, and it is not a cheerful place 
to visit this bright morning. 

It is to the very top that we go, to Lizelle Gay’s 
5 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


sky parlor, under the rotting eaves. The sun sends 
a few stray beams into the tiny closet of a room 
through two little windows, but they scarcely re- 
lieve the darkness of the place at all. Still Lizelle 
is thankful for them, for when it is dark from clouds 
or rain, she cannot see to work by the daylight, but 
must light her small lamp — and oil is a serious item 
of expense to a seamstress who earns but a few 
shillings a week, in the dull season. Can you see 
her, gentle reader, as she sits on the little box 
which serves for a seat, with that one stray sun- 
beam lighting up her face.? Too fair for such a 
place you will think, and think rightly; a deli- 
cate little creature, with marvelous complexion, soft 
wavy hair of a golden hue, and eyes of the blue of 
a fringed gentian, laughing eyes too — despite the 
garret, and despite their intimate acquaintance 
with tears. There is a little bit of blue sky that 
she sometimes watches through her mite of a win- 
dow which is like her eyes, so deep, so dark, so 
transparent. You cannot compare them now, for 
her eyes are downcast and she is all absorbed in 
her work, making haste while the sun shines. One 
must sew to live, though just why Lizelle should 
want to live, it is difficult for an outside observer 
to decide. All the hours of all the days she sits 
and sews, and long evening hours as well — then 


A SKY PARLOR 


7 


sleeps the deep sleep of exhaustion, and sews again. 
Life means to her, simply, seam and gusset and 
band, band and gusset and seam. She sees a little 
something of another kind of life when she goes 
out to deliver her work, or to buy the few neces- 
saries of her attic life, but practically she knows 
nothing but this drawing of the needle to and fro^ 
With her, to live, is to sew, to begin another piece 
when one is finished, to count^them eagerly as they 
grow under her hands, and to compute the little 
sums that each will bring, and how she can make 
them furnish her with the scanty food she must 
have, or sew no more This seems a narrow life to 
you and me. We are not over cheerful now in our 
happy homes, and we cannot conceive how people 
.exist, who live but to toil; but some of these toilers 
in their youth are cheerful, even thankful and 
glad. 

Lizelle Gay is one of them. There is a bird in 
her heart that sings on while she sews, and she 
smiles at times and even breaks into a bit of song 
she has learned in the streets. But this is oftenest 
in the morning, when she is not so weary as later 
on. At night she more often weeps. 

She is eighteen years old now, and has lived here 
for two years entirely alone. Her mother had 
lived with her before, and sewed as Lizelle sews. 


8 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


until the needle fell from her nerveless hand, and 
she died of sheer exhaustion. The mother was not 
born to this life of the attic and the needle. She 
grew up in a comfortable home, loved, and married 
the man of her choice, and had much of brightness 
to look back upon as she sat and sewed, though 
perhaps the contrast made her lot more bitter. 
She had never known luxury, but until her hus- 
band’s death had never experienced want, and she 
was as unfitted to battle with the world as the child 
who turned her large longing eyes upon her when 
she wept. Lizelle scarcely remembers anything 
else but the attic home. For ten years the weak 
and wasted mother had lived in it, and earned the 
bread which kept the child alive. And after the 
hands of strangers laid her in her pauper grave, 
Lizelle began where her mother had left oft — be- 
gan to sew, and to weep. For the old song does 
not tell the whole truth, and women must not only 
weep, but work as well. It had been more cheer- 
ful while the mother stayed. They had each other 
to love, to care for, and to cheer. Now the lone- 
liness made Lizelle’s heart ache worse even than 
the want. To have no one to speak to, through 
the long days of the long week, to live absolutely 
alone, to have no living soul to turn to in her deep- 
est misery, this seemed the cruelest cut of destiny. 


A SKY PARLOR 


9 


Lizelle felt that she could have borne anything but 
this. The mother had kept her purposely secluded. 
She had feared the contamination of such com- 
panionship as the child might have had, and she 
had guarded her jealously from it. She had drifted 
away from old acquaintances herself in her extreme 
poverty, and friends and relatives she had none. 

So Lizelle had known no friend but her mother, 
and now had neither time nor opportunity to make 
one. The tenants in the rooms below came and 
went, but she lived on in her one room, and took 
little note of those around her. Sometimes a 
motherly woman spoke to her, sometimes a rude 
man accosted her, sometimes little children clung 
to her as she went up and down the passage, but 
excepting this she lived her life apart, and spent 
the long hours of her day alone. On Sundays she 
went to a church near by, as her mother had taught 
her to do, but no one spoke to her there, and the 
minister seemed to her like the denizen of another 
sphere, and as one who spoke in an unknown 
tongue. 

Once in a while when she was out of work, she 
walked out with a strange frightened face, thinking 
not of gayety or good cheer, but intent only on dis- 
covering somewhere the work which seemed to 
her the one blessed boon of the world. If she 


10 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


could not get work she must die. Her mother with 
strange pertinacity had told her that it was work or 
die, and the young do not want to die, even in their 
misery. Her agony of mind when she had the 
leisure to see the streets, protected her from their 
contamination, and when she was busy she seldom 
frequented them at all. Young girls like herself 
swarmed everywhere. The streets were full of 
them at evening, laughing and talking, and walking 
about with companions, but she shunned them one 
and all, as her mother had taught. She looked 
at them wonderingly sometimes, to see how they 
could be so gay * and careless, when she felt so 
burdened with her anxiety and her loneliness, but 
she hurried away from them, and climbed once 
more the attic stair. 

“ Near a whole city full, friend she had none.” 

Just at evening on the day of which we write she 
stole forth to buy a few things for the following 
day. She bought a loaf of bread and four apples 
which she placed in her tiny basket, and started 
back to her room. Upon this she would live for 
one or two days, and feel quite satisfied with her 
fare. This hardship of scanty meals never dis- 
tressed Lizelle. She had always lived in this man- 
ner and had no trying comparisons to make. If 
she could but be assured of even this supply she 


A SKY PARLOR 


]1 


was happy. To get back to her room she must 
hurry through a worse portion of the city than the 
street upon which she lived, which was one of des- 
titution but not of crime. A little further down 
in the city’s black depths was the home of the pro- 
fessional criminal and the haunt of all the lowest 
forms of vice. From that quarter the population 
was pouring forth to-night, and invading the 
neighboring street where Lizelle was walking. Half 
drunken men, with bleared eyes, and sodden faces, 
were making their way back to the public houses, 
women even more hideous in their degradation 
thronged the sidewalks for a breath of purer air 
than their vile cellars and attics furnished, throngs 
of rough boys ready for any lawless sport sallied 
up and down, and as many girls, of all ages, .were 
lingering about. There too were the children, for 
in such neighborhoods children always swarm — 
God help them — playing in the gutters or fighting 
in the alleys. These are they ‘‘who are damned 
into the world. Born many of them, of the low- 
est form of vice in both parents, conceived in in- 
toxication, and nurtured upon gin pre-natally as 
well as in infanc)^ living in the putrid air of sinks 
and cesspools, having no vocabulary but that of 
profanity and obscenity, for they hear nothing else 
from birth, with never a wholesome meal, a com- 


12 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


fortable bed, or clothing sufficient to keep them 
warm, cruelly beaten at all times, beating others 
a little younger or more helpess than themselves, 
in their turn; (for cruelty begets cruelty, as surely 
as love begets love;) seeing every species of vice 
openly practiced, from the time their intelligence 
first dawns. These are the children of the streets, 
of the slums. Sometimes we are accustomed to 
say in moments of optimism — the children of God 
— and brothers of us all. 

One of these girls about a dozen years old, ac- 
costs Lizelle to-night, and follows her, persistently 
begging. Lizelle is accustomed to this, and usually 
pays no attention to these calls. She has nothing 
to bestow upon charity, and she shuts her ears and 
hastens on. Sometimes she has had her basket 
snatched from her, and gone without food in con- 
sequence, so to-night she grasps it firmly and hur- 
ries on. But the girl is so beseeching that she 
pauses. “Please give me an apple, Fm so hungry 
— you have four — only give me one for the good 
God’s sake,” she keeps imploring. Lizelle stops 
. and is about to hand her an apple, when the girl 
snatches the purse from her hand and runs rapidly 
down the street. Lizelle stands for a moment 
like one dazed, the overwhelming nature of the 
catastrophe stuns her and fairly takes her breath 


A SKY PARLOR 


13 


away. Then she begins to run after the girl, but 
falls down, and the contents of her basket are 
spilled. The boys see her and give chase, and 
she soon has a hooting yelling mob at her heels. 
Some one cries “Stop thief, and all the people 
turn to look at her, while some join the chase. 
She loses sight of the girl, and suddenly turns 
back, fearing that which is ahead more than that 
which she must encounter if she returns. The 
boys turn back also and follow her hooting up the 
street. She runs like a hunted deer, with the yell- 
ing pack in full pursuit, until she turns into her 
own street, where a policeman is stationed at the 
crossing. At sight of him the pursuing column 
turns back, and Lizelle hurries on — not daring to 
claim the protection of the policeman. She flies 
fleetly up the staircase, and is soon locked in her 
own room. But how feeble is the barrier. She 
notices it for the first time to-night. The door is 
old and the lock shrunken away from the socket, 
and she sees that any determined hand could force 
an entrance. She is palsied with fright already, 
and this drives her almost to frenzy. She has never 
been afraid before to stay in her room alone. She 
was so accustomed to it, that it seemed to her a 
safe place. But now that she has been so terrified, 
the place seems to her one of deadly danger, as 


14 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


indeed it is — though by some accident of Fate, she 
has lived here in safety so long. She lights her 
little lamp and sinks upon the floor utterly over- 
come with the excitement she has passed through. 
She moans and sobs in a heart broken fashion, she 
even cries aloud in a frantic manner, half-hysteri- 
cal. After a time her fears of immediate pursuit 
are lulled, her wild weeping ceases, and a stolid 
woe takes possession of her heart. The loss of 
her little store of money comes back to her — little, 
but her all — and how shall she live without it until 
the week comes around She never has a cent to 
spare, and the rent is due in three days. These 
helpless beings must be prompt with rent, what- 
ever happen, and she has never missed her pay 
day. She has not a friend in the universe to whom 
to turn — nobody to consult. She is alone with 
her wild woe. Wearily the night wears on. She 
sleeps a little fitfully, where she lies on the hard 
floor, but every time she rouses, her unutterable 
dread is upon her. Morning comes at last, and 
she rises, so cold, so stiff, so faint, that she can 
hardly walk. She eats a few mouthfuls to give 
her strength, and takes up the work she laid aside 
at eve. How beautiful yesterday seems to her now, 
yesterday when she sat here calm and peaceful, 
with no harrassing fear and sorrow at her heart, 


A SKY PARLOR 


15 


yesterday when she had only to sew, and sew, and 
sew. But to-day with this terror in her heart ! 
To-day! 


CHAPTER II 


AT KLOSTERHEIM 

Up the Hudson a little way stands a many-gabled 
house of the old colonial time, set in a frame of 
woodland, and with the beautiful blue river flow- 
ing before it. Upon the wooded heights are giant 
trees of the native forest growth, spared by man 
through all the passing years, for their wonderful 
beauty and size. The ground is cleft by a deep 
ravine, covered with a beautiful undergrowth and 
spanned by a rustic bridge dating back to an early 
day. An arched gateway guards the entrance to 
the grounds beyond the ancient bridge, and from it 
runs the winding carriage road to the stately 
home upon the slope — one of the highest points 
upon the river. The house is very old-fashioned, 
but roomy and well-preserved, and from its win- 
dows the prospect is as beautiful as eye has ever 
seen. On the opposite shore are the wooded bluffs, 
below the swift, deep river, and afar the broad ex- 
panse of broken country with a fringe of mountains 
at its edge. 


16 


AT KLOSTERHEIM 


17 


It is the family home of the ^Armstrongs, some 
of whom have lived here for generations, almost 
from the days of Hendrick Hudson until now. 

That is Victoria, the only daughter of the house, 
standing in the golden sunlight yonder. She is 
worthy of the setting which fate has given her, if 
we can judge by looks alone. “A daughter of the 
gods, divinely tall and most divinely fair,’’ with a 
coronal of over-abundant auburn hair of the dark- 
est shade — such as has been loved by painters in 
all time. It is rolled back from a broad forehead, 
and wound in massive coils around a well-shaped 
head. Her eyes are black, ’or deepest hazel, and 
her features irregular but pleasing. The large 
mouth is very expressive, and the whole pose and 
carriage of the woman striking. She is very simply 
dressed, and^ not afraid of the wildest antics of 
the huge mastiff with whom she is enjoying a morn- 
ing run through the grounds. Ajax is Victoria’s 
especial pride, and the constant companion of her 
walks. How beautiful he is as he stands there 
with eyes fixed lovingly upon the girl who talks to 
him as to a friend. Full of keen intelligence and 
high spirit, and with a character which many men 
would do well to imitate if they could ; docile, 
gentle, affectionate in the highest degree, faithful 
unto death, are those noble dogs whom we speak 


18 


FENCING WITH SHADOWS 


of lightly as brutes. He is coaxing his mistress 
for a run beyond the gates. There is nothing he 
so much enjoys as a long tramp through the woods 
with Victoria, and it has been several days since he 
has had this pleasure. 

‘‘No, Ajax, we can't go to-day. I’m as sorry 
as you are, old fellow, but we really must not in- 
dulge ourselves to-day. I have not time. Can’t 
you understand that I must go back to the house 
now, and waste no more time on you.^^” And she 
patted his head once again and turned to go in, re- 
luctantly. As she walked up the steps of the 
house she met her mother, a beautiful woman of 
fifty, with dark gray eyes and soft silvery hair, 
waving above a low broad forehead. 

“I thought you had started for a long walk, my 
dear,’’ she said to Victoria, who put her arm 
about her mother’s waist. 

“So I did. But I have h^ad a spasm of con- 
science, and concluded to return and do my duty 
by my little mother. Somebody has to work here, 
even on a May morning, I find, and although I 
don’t in the least want to do it, I am going to be- 
gin — for your sake— to become a household drudge.” 

“No, Victoria, I would rather do what must be 
done myself, than to spoil all your pleasure in be- 
ing home again, by confining you to the house 


AT KLOSTERHEIM 


19 


these lovely days. Run along with Ajax and I will 
do the dusting and make the dessert, and perhaps 
Mary can manage the rest of the work. We’re not 
much hurried to-day.” 

“That is what you tell me every day, but you 
work all the morning just the same, and have a 
headache in the afternoon. I cannot play while 
you work, and if more servants cannot be had this 
summer, I shall regularly take the second work, 
and make a business of it.” 

“Well, we must keep trying for more help — but 
I am quite discouraged. Girls will not stay in the 
country, offer what inducements we will — especially 
after the summer resorts open. Last summer I 
had but one servant, and I was even left alone 
for some weeks.” 

“And so you did the work yourself, my dear 
delicate mother, and I off at the mountains and 
the seashore. It is a burning shame I think, that 
either of us is obliged to do it, when there are so 
many women in the world who are starving for the 
lack of the work.” 

“Very true, it is a pity as well as a shame. But 
I don’t see how we can help ourselves. I have 
tried almost all devices for attracting help here, 
but it is so lonely for them they will not stay. 
Even when there are two or three here they are 


20 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


just as restless and uneasy as ever, and go off with- 
out warning, at the first opportunity. I really do 
not know what to do.’^ 

“Wouldn’t poor girls from the city come? — not 
regular servants who are too independent and ex- 
acting, but the kind of girls we read of — who have 
no homes, and starve as seamstresses or clerks?” 

“They would know nothing of the work, even if 
we could get them.” 

“We would teach them. I don’t know how to 
work — but I have brains enough to learn — and then 
I will teach a whole new force.” 

“You’ll find it a hard business, even if you can 
get them to teach, which seems doubtful.” 

“Well I shall make a desperate effort. I shall 
go to the city to-morrow, and bring somebody 
back with me who can sweep and dust and rub 
silver and clean glass.” 

“You may get one — I have many times — but the 
problem will be to keep her.” 

“I will hire her for life.” 

“And she will stay a fortnight. Contracts do 
no good with these girls. They break them with 
no excuse whatever.” 

“But they can’t be all alike, more than other 
people. I am sure I shall find one who will ap- 
preciate kind treatment and good wages.” 


AT KLOSTERHEIM 


21 


Mrs. Armstrong had suffered in this way more or 
less for years — but every year now found it harder 
to get and to retain the help she so much needed. 


CHAPTER III 

O’SLEARY THE SWEATER 

Lizelle Gay had succeeded in deferring the pay- 
ment of the rent for a few days, by a truthful state- 
ment of her loss, for her words were believed by 
the agent, when those of almost any other of his 
tenants would have obtained no credence. But 
this first appeal of the young girl who had never 
asked a favor touched even the hardened heart of 
this man, who for years had collected the rents of 
Cherry and Mulberry Streets, and dealt with many 
of the worst families of the Fourth Ward. He was 
kind in his rough way, and told her to bring him 
the money when she had earned it again, with 
perfect confidence that she would do so, although 
he had been deceived many times by others in simi- 
lar straits. 

She had ventured to confide her new trouble to 
one of the women of the lower floor, who had seen 
her make her mad rush up the stairs that dreadful 
night — and felt a little better after doing so — not 
quite so solitary and forsaken. 

22 


O' S LEARY THE SPHEATER 2S 

Mrs. Barry was an Irish widow who lived with her 
little daughter on the first floor. She had not been 
there long and had known nothing of Lizelle be- 
fore. She was a woman of forty who had formerly 
been in domestic service, and lived in comfort and 
independence. But she left all this comfort, to 
marry a worthless fellow who drank up his wages 
and neglected and abused her, until life grew al- 
most unbearable in its hardness. He was now 
dead, and she living in comparative comfort once 
more. 

When Saturday came Mrs Barry saw Lizelle 
starting forth with her bundle of work, with a 
bright and pleasant look upon her face, and she 
gave her a hearty good morning answered by a 
sweet half-surprised smile on the part of the girl. 
She usually carried home her work at evening, but 
she was afraid of the^ twilight now, when the boys 
and girls were out in force — and felt that she must 
sacrifice her morning to this undertaking, and sew 
later in the night. The place she sought was 
O’Sleary’s, a well-known sweating establishment. 
O’Sleary gave out the work for a large and very 
respectable firm whose establishment was farther 
up town, and he was known to all the work people 
as one of the hardest and most unscrupulous of his 
kind. Firms whose respectability would suffer if 


24 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


they practiced the meannesses and petty extortions 
themselves, do not hesitate to employ these mid- 
dlemen who grind the faces of the poor with open 
shamelessness, and thrive upon every species of 
injustice and cruelty. In all large cities this 
‘‘sweating” system exists, and the poor and help- 
less become its victims by the thousands. The 
life limit, as it is called, is reached in the wages of 
the poor creatures who sew for these large estab- 
lishments. The lady who innocently wonders how 
underclothing can be bought so cheap, when she 
knows the expense of private sewing, would find 
out if she were to search into the facts, that this 
cheapness is paid for out of the heart’s blood of 
women and children who labor fourteen hours a 
day, or more, for the price of a crust of bread, a 
cup of tea, and the poor rags which cover them. 
In their little dark rooms in garrets or cellars are 
these women, thousands upon thousands of them — 
on the very verge of starvation year after year — 
sewing for these sweaters. And Christian people 
all over the land — even charitable and kind-hearted 
Christians — are helping to keep them there, by 
buying the goods which can only be manufactured 
thus cheaply by grinding the workers in this fiend- 
ish mill of competition. 

Lizelle saw many women with bundles of work 


O'SLEARY THE SIVEATER 


25 


for O’Sleary’s on her way there. Old women and 
young women and even children, hurried thither 
this Saturday morning from all quarters. But the 
number would be vastly increased toward evening 
when the crush would be almost unbearable, and 
the hurry and confusion in the building very con- 
ducive to mistakes or cheating. The latter was 
generally called the former when detected, but the 
victims usually had their own opinion of the 
matter, despite explanations. That systematic 
robbery went on there, was doubted by few of the 
regular workers. The respectable firm up town 
were probably ignorant of this opinion, as they 
were ignorant of many of the details of the down- 
town business. But had they any right to be 
thus ignorant 

Lizelle waited her turn at the counter where 
O’Sleary himself was receiving the bundles. She 
had never dealt directly with him before, and 
dreaded the ordeal very much, because she had 
heard other girls say as they passed out of the shop 
that he was far worse than his underlings. He was 
a tall, stout Irishman, with a nose of a vivid Ver- 
million hue, and a soft oily voice, which belied 
the savagery of his nature. He opened the bun- 
dles, pulled the work apart, stretching every seam 
in a hasty but effectual manner, and found some 


20 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


small fault in almost every one. If it was only a 
stitch dropped, or the variation of a hair’s breadth 
in the seams he docked the unlucky seamstress on 
the spot, to an amount far be3-ond any reasonable 
figure. One woman with more spirit than the rest 
refused to take the amount tendered, said she 
would repair the slight defect, and insisted upon 
justice. She was answered by a shower of foul 
abuse, and a warning to show herself there no more 
— they had no work there for the ‘‘sassy and brassy.” 
When she refused still to take the sum offered, and 
threatened to take her case to the Woman’s Pro- 
tective Union, the man swore at her more fiercely 
than ever, but threw her full wages upon the floor, 
and bade her never “show up there again.” 

Lizelle stood cowering with terror until the crowd 
had cleared away, when she presented her bundle 
of work. 

The man pulled it over and finding it very neatly 
done was about to pass it on, when his quick eye 
detected a place where the needle *had “jumped” 
and where half an inch of a band required re- 
sewing. Lizelle trembled in every limb, as he 
slipped a knife under the place and ripped the 
band entirely off in a twinkling. “That’s no good. 
We can’t pay for such botching. I must dock you 
on this dozen. The first are well enough.” 


O^SLEARY THE SIVEATER 


27 


“But I will do it over, please sir, and bring it 
back this evening. 

“We can’t bother with your mending. You 
must do it right the first time or no pay,’^ saying 
which he handed her money for the four dozen 
night dresses with which he could find no fault, 
and retained the pay for the last dozen with the 
utmost nonchalance. Li^elle burst into tears as 
she took up the proffered money, but said nothing 
except the simple words: 

“Oh, sir, if you knew how much I need it, and 
walked heart brokenly away. 

“Rather a good-looking hussy,’’ said O’Sleary to 
himself as she turned away, “perhaps it will pay 
to treat her a little better next time. She is pretty 
well played, now, I guess, and when she is clear 
down, she may like a friendly protector,” and his 
face assumed an expression diabolical in its hide- 
ousness. All day long he stood at his counter go- 
ing through with scenes like this. A steady pro- 
cession of the poorest, the most unfortunate of the 
great city passed before him during those hours. 
But not one gleam of pity passed through his heart, 
not one gentle word was spoken, not one thought of 
simple justice was in his mind. He stood like an 
embodiment of avarice, of cruelty, and of hardness 
of heart. And this is but one of the days of a long 


28 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


life. What an appalling sum of evil would the 
whole course of one such a life present. The 
question of the existence of a personal devil used 
to be discussed with great interest by theologians. 
But all who have to deal with the lower classes in 
great cities, and who are familiar with the treat- 
ment which the helpless receive at the hands of 
their fellowmen, answer with one accord: “There 
are myriads of them.’^ 

The rumseller yonder, is one, who receives for 
drink the last penny of the man whose family he 
knows to be starving, and who kicks the poor 
wretch into the street when the last penny is gone. 
The sleek hypocrite who watches and waits to lure 
a young girl to her ruin, when poverty shall have 
reduced her low enough, belongs to the order. 
The mother selling her own child to shame as 
mothers debased by debauchery and drink do every 
day in this big wicked city, should hold the place 
of chief among them, and the oppressor of the 
down-trodden — he who lives by the blood of women 
and children — should hold high rank among the 
hideous throng. A personal devil } — alas for the 
simplicity of the inquiry ! 

Lizelle with her precious money tightly clasped 
in her hands, went at once to the office of the 
agent to whom she owed the rent, and quietly paid 


O^SLEARY THE SIVEATER 


29 


him the sum due, and withdrew. But the deathly 
pallor of her face as she looked up at him, attracted 
the attention even of one as hardened as he to the 
lot of the poor, with whom he dealt. 

“I wonder if she has been cheated out of her earn- 
ings,’’ he thought, for the methods of O’Sleary and 
his kind, are well known to those who come much 
in contact with the poor, “and I wonder if the 
poor soul has enough to keep her alive until 
another week comes around.” 

But the momentary gleam of compassion in his 
heart was allowed to die, and as he turned back 
to his figures the pathetic little face was forgotten 
in the routine of daily work. 

Well might he ask himself the question, for 
Lizelle had precisely fifty cents on which to sus- 
tain life for the coming week. She had nothing 
whatever to start with for the misfortune of the 
first of the week had kept her almost at starvation 
point during all these dreadful days, and she was 
staggering with weakness as she went along the 
street. Her walk was a long one, and the sweet 
fresh air revived her somewhat, and the sunlight 
cheered her, for it was June even here in the city. 
She bought bread and ate it as she walked, so 
famished and faint she felt, and she grew even 
cheerful after she had eaten. But she dreaded the 


80 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


Sabbath which was coming. She did not know how 
to be idle a day, just now, and the hours were long 
when she was not at her accustomed toil. The 
day was indeed dreary to her at all times, but she 
dreaded particularly to have so much time to think, 
just at this period of her life, when fate seemed to 
be dealing its heaviest blows at her. But she 
looked up at the blue sky and smiled at it even in 
her dread. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE END OF THE STRIKE 

The strike was over. The miners were beaten, 
and the whole number turned out upon the world 
without a dollar in their pockets, and with nowhere 
to lay their defeated heads. A colony of Poles 
had been brought over to take their places. A few 
sullen and desperate men lingered around the pit’s 
mouth, and watched the new-comers as they de- 
scended into the black hole, where some of. these 
discharged men had passed the larger part of the 
waking hours of their whole lives. It was a dismal 
spot, and the Hours of their imprisonment in its 
black depths had been long and joyless, but use 
had rendered it endurable, and the men regretted 
it in a stolid and bitter way, not knowing how else 
to earn the pittance which should keep them alive. 
The old force were mostly American born, the 
children of English miners who had come here in 
an early day when wages were better than at home. 

These men went into the mine when children, 
with their fathers, and there remained until they 
31 


32 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


knew absolutely nothing of the world outside the 
coal district. The Poles who had taken their 
places, had passed their lives in a similar manner 
at home, and knew no life but the underground 
one. But they had been promised a small ad- 
vance of wages, and willingly changed lands for 
the slight chance of improvement offered. The 
under-world is much alike in all countries, and if a 
man must dig coal all his days, it does not matter 
so much in what country he does it. 

And yet these men like those whom they dis- 
placed had a sort of attachment to the old known 
places and an undefined dread of the new, and 
there had been a pang at parting, and a sinking of 
the heart at the entrance into new fields. They 
did not know a word of the language of the country 
to which they had come, and consequently were 
spared the knowledge of the curses which were 
heaped upon them whenever they passed by the 
men whose places they had taken. Indeed they 
knew little of any language except the necessary 
vocabulary of their daily lives. They could un- 
derstand each other, but outside a mining camp 
they would not have gotten on well even at home, 
for they were of the lowest and most ignorant class 
of the mining population there. A hard, fierce- 
looking set of fellows indeed as the owners of the 


THE END OF THE STRIKE 


83 


mine had said. Capable doubtless of holding their 
own in a rough fight, but as certainly low in the 
scale of intelligence as human beings. 

Richard Savage, one of the leaders of the strike, 
made this observation to one of the old men, as 
they watched the Poles enter the mine this first 
morning. 

^‘Yes, they’re a hard lot, but we could clean 
them out if you said so,’’ answered the man bit- 
terly, wiping his brow, which was drawn into a 
dreadful frown, as he spoke. 

“No, we are fairly beaten, and there’s no good 
in a fight,” answered Savage, but clenching his 
own fist as he spoke, “these fellows are not to 
blame. They take a job when they can get it, like 
the rest of us.” 

“But we’ve been ordered to leave the cottages, 
and where are we to go 

“Heaven knows, John. I don’t, I must confess.” 

“But you led us into this, you and Wilkins, and 
Thomas, all of you with you book lamin’, and now 
we’re beat and lost our places; you don’t know no 
more than the rest of us.” 

“Yes, John, I’m afraid that is all so. I feel 
like going down on my knees to every one of you 
fellows, and begging you to forgive me. But we’d 
been cut down to starvation wages, and it was hard 
3 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


U 

to stand it, as you know, and we thought we had 
a fair show to win.” 

“I know that we had too, only for these black 
devils being brought in. I’m not blaming you, 
Dick, but it’s mighty hard all the same. We’ve 
hung out till our last cent is gone, and now we 
don’t know where to turn.” 

‘‘You’ll have to scatter, that’s the only thing. 
Some of you may get jobs in the villages here and 
there, or with the farmers.” 

“But we don’t know nothing about outside work, 
just to dig coal that’s all.” 

“I’ve dug coal too, but I’m sure I can get my 
living at something else.” 

“Oh yes, you’re all right, nobody else to look 
out for, and lamin’ too. I’ve a wife and lads, and 
am ordered from the cottage.” He drew his hand 
across his eyes as he spoke, and a tear traced its 
way across the blackness of his cheek. 

“I’ll go to the bosses, John, and see if no delay 
can be had. I’d like to see the bosses just now, 
I feel like it,” and he set his mouth in a way which 
would have boded ill to any one who crossed his 
will just then. A stalwart fellow this Richard 
Savage, young, but with thews of iron, and arms 
which could lift more weight than any man in the 
camp. Tall, broad-shouldered, and strongly though 


THE END OF THE STRIKE 


35 


rather lightly built, he had a fair complexion, blue 
eyes, with brown hair and beard, and a look of 
quick intelligence which distinguished him from 
his fellows. He was scarcely an ordinary miner. 
His father had been an Englishman of much in- 
telligence, who had followed mining for a living in- 
deed, but had not spent his whole life in the pit. 
He was one of the men of his class who rise, even 
in England, and he had improved Eis con- 
dition by coming to America. He had been able 
to- send his children to school, and not to put them 
to work as young as most miners must, and he had 
ideas of his own which he instilled into their minds 
and which bore fruit in good time. Among these 
fundamental ideas was that of standing up for their 
rights, and of expecting no aid from others. To 
be independent, to be honest, and not to be afraid 
of hard work, were the cardinal principles of his 
own life, and he added to these in teaching his 
children the other one of getting learning, and of 
trying to rise in the world. Richard had been the 
pride of the old miner’s heart, for he could learn 
anything easily and thoroughly, and he spoke with 
fluency and ease almost from his cradle. His 
father delighted in the language which the boy 
picked up, he knew not how, but mainly from the 
few books and papers to which he found access. 


36 


FENCING WITH SHADOWS 


and in listening to the teacher of the village school, 
and the minister who preached there on Sunday. 
He never missed a new word, but fastened it in 
his memory as a prize, and he committed all his 
school books to heart with an ease which aston- 
ished all who knew whence he had come. But to 
those who wondered at his facility in language, it 
might have been an explanation had they known 
how his mother used to read the psalms in the days 
before he was born, lovingly, earnestly, every day, 
and how she too committed words easily to memory, 
knowing large portions of the Bible, her only book, 
by heart, long before the little Richard had glad- 
ened her home. An unlettered woman, but one of 
natural refinement and with a love for beauty, 
whose principal gratification had been a little patch 
of a flower garden before her door. The world 
wondered at Robert Burns until it knew more of 
the old peasant father who read by the peat fire 
on the hearth; and it wondered more at Millet, 
the painter of peasants, until it learned that he too 
had a father a little above the hinds who worked 
with him in the fields. Richard was kept at school 
as long as his father lived, but father and mother 
had both gone now, and for many years Richard 
had worked in the mine like his father. It had 
seemed the natural thing to do. He was attached 


THE END OF THE STRIKE 


37 


to this rough section of the earth. He had known 
nothing else, and Pennsylvania seemed to him a 
goodly land, for he had gone at intervals a little 
further away from the mine itself than his father 
had ever done. The wages were sufficient to keep 
a young man comfortably, his strength did not find 
the day’s task a hard one, and at night and on 
Sundays he turned to his books for his pleasure. 
What he read there he carried with him into the 
mine and pondered it through the long hours of 
the day. Hence he knew what was in his books 
as few students know, and grew thoughtful about 
many things, which those about him had no con- 
ception of. Here he studied economic questions 
in a crude way, without a master, and became 
filled with strange thoughts about labor and the 
capitalist, until the hard lot of the men about him 
filled his soul with gloom. For himself he did not 
care. He could leave mines and mining when he 
pleased and meant to do so some day. But these 
men were prisoners of toil; such as had fami- 
lies, slaves like themselves. The minister, who had 
talked much with Richard and discovered his gift 
of speech, had urged upon him to become a 
minister, and when pressed for a reason why he 
would not undertake what his friend desired, he 
had replied that he should have nothing to preach. 


88 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


as religion as he understood it, did not offer a rea- 
sonable answer to any of the hard questions of life, 
and he had got to work them out for himself with- 
out its aid. 

“That is because you are not converted,’’ the 
minister answered, “you are yet a natural man, 
and cannot be expected to see what is revealed 
alone by the new birth.” 

“Convert me if you can,” Richard answered. 
“I am very willing to find a way out, and I should 
like much to be a minister if I had anything to 
preach.” 

But his friend had not converted him, though 
he had set him to studying the Bible with a zest 
his mother would have rejoiced in, and to thinking 
deeply upon some of the hardest problems of human 
life. The dangerous half-knowledge he had gained 
of economic questions had led him into advocating 
and urging the strike, which the miners had long 
been threatening, and for many weeks now all 
hands had been idle together, and the mine un- 
worked. It was Richard’s first experience of the 
real hardships of life. To be sure he had not fared 
very badly himself, but he had seen real want and 
suffering in the homes of his friends. The strike 
was a just one, not only in the eyes of the miners, 
but in those of the outside world as well. Wages 


THE END OF THE STRIKE 


89 


had been cut down until the lowest possible point 
at which the men could live had been reached, 
and it was only after all remonstrances and petitions 
had been ignored, that the leaders had counselled 
the strike. But when week after week went by 
and they saw no signs of yielding on the part of 
the owners, when the little surplus of each man 
had been spent, when there were no longer pro- 
visions in the cabins or clothes upon the children, 
and when men and women began to ask them what 
to do next, the real nature of the business they 
had engaged in dawned upon their eyes. There 
was clear grit in Richard Savage, but he could not 
bear the upbraiding of the sad-eyed women, nor 
the morose complainings of the men. He grew 
almost desperate with the strain. He could not 
sleep by night, or rest by day, and he grew hag- 
gard and pale like the others, for all the men 
suffered with him in kind if not in degree. He 
was but twenty five years old, and was very ignor- 
ant of life. He felt even more responsibility than 
was his due, in the matter, and blamed his own 
short-sightedness and lack of judgment. Now 
that the strife was really over and no hope of the 
men boing taken back he was too sick at heart to 
think about himself at all. Yet he was out with 
the rest, and had neither home nor friends in the 


40 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


world. He had counselled the men to go back, 
but not until it was too late. The “bosses’^ had 
already sent for their cargo of Poles when the 
men’s proposition to yield had been handed in, 
and Richard had been treated with slight cere- 
mony when he went to the owners in behalf of the 
men. 

“Take the consequences of your ignorant med- 
dling, and don’t bother us again. We want no 
more of you or your friends, only to vacate the 
cabins as soon as may be.’’ 

Richard had read “Evangeline,” and he thought 
of the poor Acadian peasants forced to leave their 
homes in a body, and seek new ones in a strange 
land, as he walked about among the cabins that 
morning. The lines ran through his mind: 

“Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country; 

Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and way-worn. 

So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended 

Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. 

Not thus would go forth the miners from this 
camp of despair. Their lives had not been the lives 
of Acadian peasants, but although they were los- 
ing and leaving much less than the men of old, 
yet the prospect was even more gloomy ahead of 
them, and they would go forth with far less of hope 
in their hearts. Like the Acadian women the 
miner’s wives would wail in their hearts, 

“We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pr^.'* 


THE END OF THE STRIKE 


41 


though the homes had been but huts covered all 
over with the blackness of this black region, and 
with scarcely a home-like thing about them, as the 
more fortunate of their fellows estimate such 
things. But they had been shelters, and the cen- 
ters of family life, and the extremely poor cling to 
these lowly and unattractive spots, with a tenacity 
which is unaccountable to those more highly 
favored. 

“And where are we to go now, Dick Savage,’^ 
one woman after another demanded as he went 
about among them this morning. He had no 
answer to make to this question. He had been 
asking it of his own heart during many weary days, 
and his heart had only echoed “where.” The 
families of the Poles needed the cabins as much 
as the old men needed them, for they were camp- 
ing on the outskirts of the village in a body, wait- 
ing with bitter impatience the movements of the 
tenants. The bosses were getting more than impati^ 
ent. They did not know what to do. They feared 
a violent collision at any hour. They had put the 
machinery of the law in motion for the eviction of 
the old tenants, and had called upon the officers 
of the government for aid to keep the peace, but 
they were sadly troubled what to do next. Two 
for three hundred familfes to be dispossessed of 


43 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


their homes is no small undertaking even for the 
officers of the law, and the officers this time did 
not work with alacrity. It is hard to get such work 
done even in Ireland, but in America we are new 
to such things, and the officers sympathize much 
with the people, of whom they are a part. 

Several days went by and hardly a family had 
moved out. A very few had found houses in the 
neighboring village, but the majority were still in 
possession. Richard Savage had scoured the 
country for miles around, and had found places 
for a few of the men, and a few houses into which 
families might remove, but these littles did not 
seem to affect the whole sum in any perceptible 
degree. 

And so it came to pass that one morning the 
officers of the law began the work of removing 
the families from the cottages. Richard Savage 
had assembled the men the night before, and 
warned them seriously against violence. He had 
made it plain to them that they had nothing to 
gain, and everything to lose by resistance, and 
though he was entirely unable to tell them what 
to do, he counselled them to submit quietly to the 
worst. One by one the little cabins were cleared, 
and their belongings piled together in little heaps 
here and there, while the Poles took possession of 


THE END OF THE STRIKE 43 

each one as fast as it was vacated. All went well 
until they came to the cottage occupied by an 
Irishman named John Kelley, who stood in his 
doorway, ax in hand, and warned the officers to 
keep out of his place. The officers ordered him 
to leave the house and cautioned him to consider 
what he was doing, but he was desperate and reck- 
less of consequences, and assaulted them fiercely 
as they tried to enter. Others in the excitement 
of the hour sprang to his aid, and in a moment the 
whole settlement was in an uproar. The Poles 
were soon engaged in a hand to hand fight with 
the old miners, even the women joined in the 
melee, while the children added to the confusion 
by their piercing screams. 

One or two cabins were set on fire, and a new 
terror was added to the scene. The battle waged 
fiercely for some time, but as none of the men had 
weapons, it was chiefly hard knocks that were ex- 
changed, and bruises and blackened eyes that were 
given, except in the case of John Kelley, whom 
the officers wounded seriously in arresting. The 
word went around that he was killed, and Richard 
Savage supposing it was true, mounted a box and 
began haranguing the men, calling upon them by 
all they held dear, to desist, and save further 
bloodshed. Then the men in senseless fury turned 


44 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


upon him and he was beaten most inhumanly as 
being the author of all their woes. The officers 
rescued him from the mob, at the risk of their own 
lives, and it was only when the cry went up from 
the outskirts of the crowd, “the troops, the troops 
that the miners began to draw off and the battle 
to cease. 

Troops had been ordered to the vicinity some 
days before, and they had not arrived a moment 
too soon, if serious bloodshed was to be averted. 
The men, many of whom had worked off their pas- 
sion with their fists, slunk away, as the word went 
around that the soldiers were in the thicket below, 
the officers began their labors again, and the epi- 
sode of violence ended more fortunately for the 
belligerents than could have been hoped. 

By night the Poles were peacefully in possession 
of the cottages and the miners were in the camp 
below. In a short time they were scattered here^ 
and there, some obtaining work, some living upon 
charity for a time, but all deprived of their old 
homes and flung upon the world, as had been the 
Acadian peasants of an early day. 

When will the new poet arise who will write 
the epic of the miner’s camp, and enlist the world’s 
sympathies for the Gabriels and Evangelines of 
this new era, whose tale is just as tragic as was 


THE END OF THE STRIKE 


45 


the tale of the others? The black cottages at the 
pit’s mouth are not poetic, the men and women 
who toil there have none of the misty glamour of 
romance about them, but they are human beings 
with hearts to ache, and tears to shed, and homes 
are homes, to them, as to us all. • 


CHAPTER V 


A WATCH IN THE NIGHT 

Lizelle Gay crept slowly up the stairway, locked 
her door and sank in a dead faint upon the floor. 
Long years of insufficient nourishment had begun 
to tell upon a naturally healthy body, and the men- 
tal strain of the last week had developed the latent 
weakness. She lay here for some minutes in sweet 
unconsciousness, then roused a little and wondered 
where she was and what had happened. 

After a while it all came back to her and she 
felt a great sense of thankfulness that she had not 
fallen in the street, and perhaps been carried to a 
hospital. The poor have a great dread of the 
hospital, and many will suffer and die amid all the 
discomfort of their own homes, rather than be 
taken to the public institution. Then she realized 
that she was ill, and a stony horror took possession 
of her at the thought. “Ill here alone in this dis- 
tant attic room’^ she thought, “with no soul who 
will know of it, or who would come to me if they 
did know. I must not be ill, I must get up and be 
46 


A IVATCH IN THE NIGHT 


47 


about my work, else I must starve. I must run 
down in the street and call somebody. I am afraid 
to stay here alone when I am so dizzy and faint. 
Oh, I must get up and do something. But what 
can I do.^ No, I must lie still and rest a while, 
then I shall be stronger. And I must try to eat a 
little more bread.” 

With that she attempted to rise, but fell back 
on the bed, utterly terrified at the thought that 
she was helpless, and might die there alone. 

After a time her very anguish stupefied her, and 
she slept. Nearly all the rest of the day she 
slept fitfully, and awoke at last in the utter dark- 
ness of the early night. She could sleep no more, 
but lay there tossing restlessly, through all the 
long weary hours. A great horror of night and 
darkness had come upon her in her weakness. 
Even in her extreme poverty and misery she had 
never wished to die. Her youth had always as- 
serted itself here, and nature demanded life, at all 
hazards. In reality few people wish to die. 
Many think that they do — and do really desire to 
be rid of their sufferings — but it is “more life and 
fuller that we want,” not death — not grim annihi- 
lation. 

Strange visions passed before her eyes, the 
fevered images of an over-wrought brain. Waving 


48 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


forms seemed hovering over, a constant procession 
of childish faces passed before her eyes. Faces, 
in endless array, first beautiful child faces, then 
grotesque images of every unreal kind in long fan- 
tastic vistas, and at last images of horror. Faces, 
faces, faces still, but faces fiendish and horrible, 
faces wild and distorted, faces grinning at her in 
ghoulish glee. The room was thronged with them, 
they passed in and out of the windows in steady 
file, they lifted the roof and escaped there, only 
to be replaced by myriads more who rose from the 
floor beneath. After awhile the faces passed away, 
and reptiles and creeping things began to come. 
Bats of enormous size circled around, the air 
seemed full of their wings, lizards crawled about, 
and spiders of demoniac expression spun webs 
above her head. She did not know that people 
of sensitive nervous organization suffer thus in 
fever and she shrieked aloud. 

By what we call chance the Widow Barry was 
at that moment mounting the stairs. She heard 
the wild hysterical shriek and ran quickly to the 
door. She found it locked but on pushing it a lit- 
tle roughly, the old lock yielded and she entered 
the room. When Lizelle saw the human face 
bending over her in the dim morning light after all 
the horrible images of the night, she threw her 


A IVATCH IN THE NIGHT 


49 


arms around the neck, of the woman and fainted 
again. 

Laving her face tenderly with water, Mrs. Barry 
soon revived the unconscious girl and began to 
inquire into her sickness. Mrs. Barry knew what 
the symptoms meant pretty well, and exclaimed: 
“You lie still here, honey, till I run downstairs 
and bring you a drop of tea, and a sup of gruel, 
then ye’ll feel better.” 

Unlike the majority of her kind, Mrs. Barry 
knew what nourishment meant. She had oatmeal 
when she had no bread, she had rice instead of 
potatoes, and beans instead of crackers. She had 
nourishing stews made of cheap meats and vege- 
tables, and brown bread always instead of white. 
But she knew well enough how Lizelle had been 
living, and she was sure her prescription was the 
right one. 

She returned soon with a cup of tea, and a 
bowl of oatmeal gruel, and she raised Lizelle and 
sat down to see her eat, or to feed her if neces- 
sary. But so cheered up had Lizelle been by the 
appearance of a friend, that she was able to help 
herself, and a very few spoonfuls of the warm food 
revived her and banished the terrible sinking of 
the heart she had felt during the last dreadful day 
After eating and drinking, she fell back and slept 
4 


50 


FENCING mTH SH/tDOlVS 


peacefully, only imploring Mrs. Barry in piteous 
tones not to leave her alone. After a refreshing 
sleep the girl awoke, feeling almost well, but too 
weak to rise. Mrs. Barry cared for her through 
the day, but when evening came on Lizelle was so 
terrified at the thought of being left alone all night, 
that the kind woman helped her to* rise and as- 
sisted her to descend the stairs to her own room, 
where she kept her for the few following days 
nursing her liko a mother. During her stay with 
Mrs. Barry, Lizelle made her first acquaintance 
with the little girl Kitty, the last remaining one of 
Mrs. Barry’s flock. ‘‘Sure,” she said to Lizelle 
when she first saw her lying on her mother’s bed, 
“when I saw you coming in, I thought you was 
just ready to throw up the ghost, so white was ye, 
but ye’re quite blooming agin now, praise heaven.” 
And from that moment her warm Irish heart was 
wrapped up in Lizelle. 

“I’m afraid too in the dark,” she confided to 
her, after hearing Lizelle tell of her sorrowful 
Holy Ghost. 

“No Kitty, that’s not what ye mane at all — at 
all,” said Mrs. Barry; “see a ghost you may, sure, 
any night, but the likes of ye mustn’t be too famil- 
air with the Holy Ghost. God forgive ye.” 

“All ghosts ^]ce alike to me, and I’H give them a 


A, IVATCH IN, THE NIGHT 


51 


wide berth if I can, you bet, but with garden angels 
tagging you around all day, and the ghosts watch- 
in’ ye by night, 1 don’t see how one is going to 
lead an aisy and comfortable life,’^ said Miss Barry, 
arching her red eyebrows. 

Kitty was what is politely termed by her race, 
“sandy.” That is her face had originally been 
fair, but now looked as though it was studded with 
brass headed nails, so thick-set were the freckles 
upon every portion of it, and her hair was 
aggressively red, but very long and very curly. 
An audacious nose of the pug variety added 
piquancy to her face, while her mouth was very 
sweet and smiling, and her eyes of a laughing 
blue. “I’m glad you’re young,” she said to Lizelle 
soon after, “ma’s face looks like a washboard 
with those big wrinkles, and her hair is all pepper ’n 
salt, but you’re almost as purty as my cat, and a 
lot sweeter, you bet.” 

“What’s your cat’s name.^^” asked Lizelle, glad 
to talk to the child.” 

“Beelzebub, I named him for O’Sleary,” she 
answered, making a terrible face, which made 
Lizelle laugh for the first time in many a long day. 


CHAPTER VI 


A MORNING VISIT 

Mr. Wirt Webster sat in his Broadway office 
one morning in June, busily engaged with his 
books, when the door opened and he looked up, 
somewhat surprised, to see a young lady entering. 
To be sure he sometimes had a lady client, but he 
was yet a young man, and had hardly grown 
accustomed to that variety. But he stepped 
forward with great alacrity when he saw that his 
visitor was Victoria Armstrong, the daughter of 
one of his father’s old friends, but one with whom 
he had but a slight acquaintance. 

“Good morning, Mr. Webster,^’ said Victoria ex- 
tending her hand. “You are surprised to see me 
here, but I am on a business errand and father 
thought you might assist me in some way.’^ 

“It will be a great pleasure if I can serve you, 
Miss Armstrong. Pray be seated.’’ 

“I will state my errand at once, and you can 
tell me whether you can help me, for I fear I am 
interrupting more important business,” said Vic- 
52 


v 


A MORNING VISIT 


53 


toria, seating herself near the table where he was 
writing. 

“The fact is that, although you don’t keep an 
intelligence office, I have come to you to see if you 
can help me find a servant.” She laughed as she 
made her errand known, and Mr. Webster smiled 
also in spite of himself. 

“Well,” he said, “state the case. That is the 
first step in legal matters.” 

“Am I to deposit a retainer.^” 

“I will not exact that in your case, as I am your 
father’s lawyer, and can charge it up to him,” he 
answered smiling again. 

“The fact is we can’t keep servants at Kloster- 
heim and mother is getting worn out with work 
and worry. I have just come home from school, 
and want my time for my own use, and she can’t 
bear to see me confined, so does not let me help 
her as much as I ought. I have been thinking the 
matter over, and it seems to me that there must 
be women in New York who want che work as 
much as we need the help, and I have come down 
this morning bound to find them. I am not going 
to try professional servants if I can help it. We 
know that they will not stay. They are lonely 
with us, and good ones can get plenty of places 
in town. But if I can find a woman or girl who 


54 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


needs a home, and is willing to be taught how to 
work, I will take her home with me, and we will 
try hard to make her contented there. 

‘‘You surely ought to succeed in such an under- 
taking, with so many poor women suffering here; 
but I am afraid it will be difficult to find the right 
sort of person.” 

“But not impossible.^” 

“I hope not, but the women who would be most 
willing to stay away from town have families — the 
most of them— and must make a horpe of some 
sort for the others. The young girls are too ignor- 
ant to be of any use — except those who have had 
some training as servants — and they are all wedded 
to their miserable way of living. Let me see. I 
wonder if Mrs. Barry would not go. She is an old 
servant of my mother’s who is living in a wretched 
' way, sewing for starvation wages, and she might 
possibly go — but there is a child.” 

“Oh dear, what could we do with a child?” 

“Of course it’s a drawback, and probably that 
is the reason Mrs. Barry has never tried service 
since her husband died. But you might train the 
girl also to help.” 

“Is the woman worth the trouble?” 

“Yes, if I am not mistaken she was a very good 
servant, and is an honest, reliable woman.” 


A MORNihIG yiSIT 


55 


“I will see her then, and try what I can do. 
Shall I have to go down on my knees do you think.? 
I am almost ready to do it.’^ 

“Klosterheim ought to seem like heaven to her, 
but one never knows how people will look at these 
things. Is it as lovely as ever up the river.? I 
have not had time to go up yet this summer.’^ 

“Father sent you a special invitation to come 
and see him, but I won’t urge the matter unless 
we get a servant or two. Entertaining company 
and doing your own housework doesn’t go well 
together. I am quite a success as a housemaid, 
but a failure when I combine that office with the 
one of hostess.’^ 

“But you would let me camp out in the grounds 
somewhere, perhaps,” he answered, “if I got very 
anxious to come.” 

“If you are very anxious, you will exert your- 
self to find the material out of which servants may 
be evolved. Is Mrs. Barry your only suggestion.?” 

“I must say that I have not another idea upon 
the subject, but I will make some inquires for you.” 

“Please give me the address, and I will make 
the trial.”" 

He handed it to her, and she rose to go. 

“You will enjoy the country very much, Miss 
Armstrong. I envy you with all my heart. I am 


56 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


a prisoner here, and it goes hard in June.’' 

“Yes, Klosterheim is my ideal of a pleasant place 
to live in. I never want anything more to make 
me happy than to be allowed to stay there. Thank 
you for your suggestion, and good morning.” 

“Good morning, and great success.” 

As he turned back to his work, he said to him- 
self: “Victoria has turned out a beauty.” Some- 
how the visit had broken up the thread of the 
lawyer’s thoughts, and he found it difficult to go 
back to his case. 

He was a man born to a fine position, and given 
every advantage in youth, who had proved himself 
worthy of his good fortune. The ordinary tempta- 
tions of rich young men had never taken hold of him 
at all. Their frivolity and dissipation had no charms 
for him. He disdained the career of a man of 
fashion, and had been a worker from the first. The 
temptation now had grown to be too much of a 
worker,to bury himself in his office, and know noth- 
ing but the law. This temptation was fostered by 
his dislike to general society, and only combated by 
his love of general culture. Books outside his 
professional ones could still charm and hold him, 
and music, and art, and the drama, all exacted a 
small share of his time. But men were getting to 
say: “Webster is too much of a recluse. He 


A MORNING VISIT 


57 


ought to marry; that would broaden him out, and 
make him of more value to the world/’ But he 
had never shown any disposition to marry. When 
quite young he was thrown a good deal into the 
society of women, by his mother, who believed in 
early marriage for a man and would have mated 
him if she could; but he never fancied the kind of 
girls he met in society, and while a favorite among 
them, he paid no particular attention to anyone. 
When his mother once reproached him for not try- 
ing to admire one whom she had brought to his 
notice, he answered her in the words of Lancelot 
to the king upon a similar occasion: 

“Fair she was, my king, 

Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 

To doubt her fairness were to want an eye. 

To doubt her pureness were to want a heart,— ^ 

Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 

Could bind him, but free love will not be bound.” 

And his mother replied in Arthur’s words: 

“Free love, so bound, were freest. 

Let love be free; free love is for the best: 

And, after heaven, on our dull side of death; 

What should be best, if not so pure a love, 

Clothed in so pure a loveliness? Yet then 
She failed to bind, tho’ being, as I think 
Unbound as yet, and gentle as I know?” 

She quoted the last lines questioningly, but 
Wirt made no answer except to smile and kiss her 
on her forehead. She had never mentioned the 
subject to him since, and had now almost become 
settled in the thought that he would never marry. 

The thoughts of this man of business flee away 


58 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


from the papers he is trying to master to-day, to 
that mother over the sea, and to all her tender so- 
licitude for him, and there is much of safety in the 
loving remembrance. Could he ever disappoint 
that mother At last he takes himself to task 
roughly for his absent-mindedness. ‘‘Do I see a 
woman so rarely that it must needs send me off my 
base, and make a dreaming boy of me again,” and 
then he goes seriously into work and is soon him- 
self again. 

Meantime Victoria has found the house of Mrs. 
Barry, and is shown into the room, on the very 
morning that we saw Lizelle upon the humble bed 
there. The walk down here among these streets 
has been a revelation to Victoria. Never before 
had she the slightest idea of where the poor lived, 
or how*, and she is filled with fear and dread, as 
well as pity. 

“Will I dare take people from this quarter home 
with me, even if they will go? and how can they 
possibly know any of the things we shall demand 
of them?” she had thought as she walked along. 
She thought so all the more after seeing the room 
and its inmates. She did not know that the ser- 
vants she had always been accustomed to came 
from such quarters many times, and had had as 
little chance to learn what was expected of them. 


A MORNING yiSiT 


59 


She stated her errand to^Mrs. Barry, who was very 
much astonished at its import. 

“I’m afeared I could never take up that sort of 
life agin. It’s all gone from me with the years 
and the troubles. I’d know no more than Kitty 
here, how to take hold in a fine house and I’m too 
old to learn agin. And then there’s the child.” 

Victoria was almost tempted to take this as an 
excuse, and leave the place at once, so unpromis- 
ing seemed the experiment, but she thought of 
what she had heard her mother say lately, “If I 
only had some one who could do the rough work, 
it would be a great blessing,” and persevered. 

“You might bring the child along, I think, for 
the summer. The country would do her good, 
and she could^do chores enough to pay her way 
I’m sure.” And she smiled at Kitty, whose nose 
was turned up in a more reckless manner than ever 
at the fine lady. 

“Good for her; ’twould be the making of her 
ma’am, and me too, for th^t matter. I used to 
love the country. But Kitty’s never seen it. She 
knows'nothing but the Fourth Ward. She’s never 
even been to the great park, mum. But what 
kind of a mistress is it, sure.^ I can’t abide some 
of them wimmin who don’t know what a day’s 
work means and would be having ye toil till ye’r 


60 


FENCING 1VITH SHADOIVS 


legs drop off. And some of em’s as hard as 
O’Sleary on wages, and will starve ye, too, if they 
kin.’^ 

‘^My mother is called a very kind mistress,’’ 
said Victoria smiling at the ways of this demo- 
cratic country, in spite of her vexation, “and there 
will be no trouble about wages, or good living, I 
am sure.” 

After a long parley upon this point the matter 
was decided. Mrs. Barry and Kitty would go for 
the summer and see how they liked it. Victoria 
did not know whether to be glad or not, and was 
about to take her departure rather grimly, when 
she looked over at the bed where Lizelle lay, and 
saw the scared white face there; for Lizelle was 
in deadly terror at the thought of Mrs. Barry leav- 
ing the tenement. 

“And what will you do with this sick girl.?” she 
queried. 

“Oh, she is not much sick. She’ll be all right 
by to-morrow, and she don’t belong to me no- 
how.” 

Victoria caught the appealing look which Li- 
zelle cast upon her, and went over to the bedside 
saying: 

“Will you be all right.? What will you do with- 
out Mrs. Barry.?” 


A MORNim yisir 


61 


“I shall die, ma’am. She’s the only one can 
keep the faces away, and I should have starved 
only for her.^’ 

Then Mrs. Barry launched out into the story of 
Lizelle’s hardships and her illness, and made a 
pathetic tale of it. 

“Well, if she cannot earn her living here by sew- 
ing, why don’t she go into the country and work, 
where she will have a good home and high wages,” 
answered Victoria. 

“Bless the Lord, miss, she don’t know how to 
boil a potato.” 

“Neither did I a few weeks go, but I can cook 
a meal now, and she can learn.” 

“Oh the blessing it would be to her, mum, if 
any one would take her,” said Mrs. Barry solemnly. 

“I will take her myself if she will come. She 
does not look strong, but we have plenty of light 
work to keep her busy.” 

“Will ye go, Lizelle,” said Mrs. Barry making 
all sorts of affirmative nods behind Victoria’s 
back, while Kitty crossed herself devoutly and 
answered for her: 

“Please God, she will.” 

“Oh, I will go anywhere to get away from this 
place. I don’t know what the country is like. 
I have never seen it more than Kitty, but I love 


02 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


you, and I’ll go anywhere you will take me,” and 
she began to sob quite violently. Then Victoria 
sat down by her and took her by the hand. 

“You poor child,” she said compassionately, 
“you shall come, and you shall not work at all 
until you are quite strong. I will do your work 
myself until you are well. Then it shall not be 
hard work, and you shall have a pretty room, and 
time to run out of doors as much as you need to 
make 3^ou grow rosy.” And she patted the pale 
cheek with her delicately gloved hand. 

“Yes, please God,” said Kitty approvingly. 

So it was arranged that all should come out in 
a day or two, and Victoria departed, feeling some- 
what like a Stanley bringing Emin out of the in- 
terior of Africa. She certainly felt that she had 
explored a dark continent, and related her adven- 
tures with great excitement that night at the tea 
table. The family had many forebodings about 
the new colony who were to settle in their midst, 
but the wildest apprehensions gathered about Kitty, 
whose nose had been very vividly described by Vic- 
toria, from whose description they built up the 
whole person as naturalists do a fish from a single 
bone. 

“Anyway she is great fun,” said Victoria, “and I 
think I can manage her, if you’ll leave her to me.” 


A MORNING VISIT 


63 


“Oh we’ll leave her to you with the greatest 
pleasure, Victoria, said Mr. Armstrong dubiously, 
“take out a patent on her, and keep her for your 
exclusive benefit if you like. That kind of a 
monopoly will be popular here, I judge.” And he 
passed on to his own room where his chief desire 
was to be left alone and undisturbed. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE NEW HOME 

Lizelle stood in the doorway of her little bare 
room and looked at it for the last time with some- 
thing the same pang that more fortunate people 
feel in leaving a home. She remembered her 
mother sitting there during so many years always 
sewing, sewing, sewing. She could never think of 
her in any other way. She recalled the first lone- 
liness after she had gone, and the dreadful days 
and nights she had spent there, then the peaceful 
period when she had sat there and sewed, almost 
contented with her youth and health, and then, 
with a shudder, the cruel suffering of the last 
week. 

Her little package of clothing lay beside her, 
the smallest outfit with which one ever started 
out into the world. Valuable it seemed to her, for 
it was her all. In her pocket was a very small 
sum of money which the sale of her few household 
things had brought. Mrs. Barry waited for her 
below. Her possessions were not much greater than 
64 


THE NEIV HOME 


65 


Lizelle’s, and she could easily carry them all in a 
bundle. There was no sentimental feeling in her 
heart about the domicile she was leaving. She was 
only forty years old and good for many years’ hard 
work, and this new chance for her life had given 
her courage. Another thing she was fully resolved 
upon, and that was to keep Kitty in the country. 
She knew all about the perils of girls in the city^and 
of the inability of mothers to cope with them, and 
this outlet looked to her superstitious heart, like a 
special act of providence performed in her behalf. 
As for Kitty the room was hardly large enough to 
contain her, in her mood of elation. “Nell Smith 
says the bears will eat me up,” she announced to 
her mother, “but I don’t care. I’ve got the scis- 
sors in my pocket, and if a bear comes near me I’ll 
rip him open, or cut off his tail. He’ll find there 
ain’t no flies on me, you bet.” And she made a 
thrust at her mother with the aforesaid scissors, 
which made even that hardened woman blench. 

Lizelle with tears upon her pale cheeks joined 
them, and they set out upon their journey. The 
river and the boats upon it terrified Lizelle at first, 
and when they were fairly on board one of the 
steamers, she trembled with excitement and fear. 
Not so Kitty, who would have danced a break- 
down then and there had she not been forcibly 
5 


6(5 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


restrained by her mother. She had a very battered 
old straw hat upon her head, and the remains of a 
very ancient pair of shoes upon her feet, and she 
had scoured her face with soap until it shone like a 
glass bottle; but her pink apron gleamed forth in 
all ifs pristine splendor, enhancing the fiery charms 
of her hair a thousand fold, and being the one ele- 
ment of magnificence in the outfit of the whole 
party. Royal as she felt it to be, she had offered 
to lend it to Lizelle when she saw that young per- 
son’s plainness of attire for this momentous journey, 
and when it had been declined with thanks, she 
had remarked: 

‘‘You might just as well have it as not. I look 
well enough without it, but you need one fine rag 
on your back to make you go down. When I 
have earned twenty-five cents I’ll buy you one 
just like it.’’ 

What a wonder the river and the shores were to 
Lizelle as they passed along. How her heart 
swelled with all the thousand beauties of the scene. 
The new Jerusalem coming down out of heaven, 
will be no fairer in her eyes. She wished they 
might sail on thus forever, through dark green fields 
and waving grain, through mossy rocks, and flower 
hung clefts, and still, deep, gliding waters. Any 
country scene would have been a revelation to her, 


THE NEIV HOME 


67 


but the Hudson on a June morning was almost too 
great an ecstacy. But all too soon the fair journey 
ended, and they were landed at Klosterheim, and 
their new life began. 

What a fairy palace it seemed to them all. 
How its towers and turrets gleamed in the bright 
sunshine, and how reverently one at least of them 
entered the hospitably opened doors. 

hope you will be very happy here,” Victoria 
said, as she showed Lizelle to her pleasant room, 
and she replied with tears: 

“Oh I am so happy that I am afraid I shall die. 
I want to live forever to enjoy it.” 

Poor soul, she had found a home at last. Only 
one long homeless, can know the infinite sweetness 
folded up in that lotus-word — home 

Lizelle who had all her life been homesick, felt 
that feeling deserting her from the moment of her 
arrival in the real home atmosphere of Kloster- 
heim. She had been an exile in a far country all 
her days. At last her bark had come into port, 
and she felt that this sweet country place was her 
native land. 

“You will have nothing to do to-day,” Victoria 
said, “only to look around and get acquainted. 
Take Kitty with you and go out and see the grounds, 
and the river. You need not be afraid to go any- 
where you choose here.” 


68 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


The two girls were not slow to avail themselves 
of the privilege of looking around. The wonders 
of the place seemed to them to be inexhaustible, 
and the commonest things were to them the great- 
est wonders of all. The great trees, the soft thick 
turf, the winding paths and the flowing river were 
divine revelations to them, and to Lizelle at least 
would never lose their charm. And the flowers 
were almost too great a joy at first. She could 
hardly comprehend that she was really to live in 
the midst of all this unparalleled splendor. Her 
little heart unused to joy ached with its very ful- 
ness of delight. When she finally returned to the 
house and ascended to her own room, she found 
laid out upon the bed an entirely new wardrobe, 
with a note saying: “Please accept from your 
friend Victoria.’’ Not a thing was wanting even 
to the white aprons, and the delicate straw hats, 
which Victoria had once worn. With all a girl’s 
delight in pretty things Lizelle stood before the 
glass and tried on the dresses and the hats one by 
one, her rapture increasing with, every passing 
moment. 

In the morning she put on her blue cotton dress, 
though she looked longingly at the new outfit, and 
went down early to see what was expected of her. 
She had no knowledge of housework whatever, and 


THE NEJV HOME 


69 


must be taught how to do the simplest things, but 
she had boundless eagerness to learn, and an over- 
whelming desire to be useful, and to please these 
new kind friends. 

She was initiated by Victoria into some of the 
easiest and simplest of the household tasks, and her 
natural neatness and deftness of touch, pleased 
that young lady very greatly. “I am sure you are 
going to be a treasure,’’ she said to Lizelle the 
first evening, “but I must not teach you any more 
at present. You are not strong and we are 
going to be very careful of you.” 

“Oh I am quite strong now, and I love so much 
to do the things you tell me. I am so happy that 
I want to do all I possibly can, to repay you. It 
is so beautiful to live with you, and you are cer- 
tainly an angel.” 

The tears began to fall as she spoke, and Vic- 
toria felt her own eyes grow moist. 


CHAPTER VIII 


IN THE CITY 

When Richard Savage turned his back upon 
the little mining town among the mountains of 
Pennsylvania, he determined to see something of 
the world before settling down to steady work 
again. He had scarcely any money to help him 
on his way. His little savings had gone to help 
the miner’s families in their extremity. He had 
given it generously and gladly, and he did not in 
the least regret it now that he was forced to make 
a new way for himself in life. 

He had Ruskin’s idea of a journey, and did not 
feel sorry that he could not take to the railroad 
and be delivered like a parcel in New York, whither 
he had turned his longing eyes, knowing almost as 
little of the country he had passed over as the 
parcel would have done. “I can walk twenty 
miles a day with ease,’’ he said, “and that extent 
of country is all I can study thoroughly in that 
time. I shall take to my feet.” For two or three 
weeks he tramped bravely over the hills and 
70 


IN THE CITY 


n 


through the rich valleys of that favored region, in- 
terested in everything that he saw, and gaining a 
thorough knowledge of what he explored. Some- 
times he rode with a farmer for many miles, again 
he went all day upon his feet. He enjoyed it all 
to the utmost. Sleeping under the open sky was 
no hardship to him in the beautiful summer months, 
indeed it was one of his greatest delights, and it 
was not difficult to get what he wanted to eat at any 
farm house by the way. Sometimes he stopped 
and worked for a few days with a farmer who was 
short of help and glad of his assistance, thus earn- 
ing enough to keep him for some time, in his frugal 
way. 

But at last there came a morning when he saw ■ 
the lights of the city ‘ffiaring in the dreary dawn.” 
His heart beat high within him as he neared its 
outskirts. Life seemed to be unfolding to him some 
of its new and most exciting pages. He felt all 
the interest in it, that we do in an unread romance, 
into whose fascinating pages we have just glanced. 

He had no fears of what might befall him there. 
Ignorant as he was of life, the city did not seem, to 
him the seething whirlpool which it is, drawing 
the young and ignorant into its black depths, but 
rather the wider field for action and for success of * 
which he had always dreamed. With all the con- 


72 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


fidence of youth and inexperience he rushed to- 
wards it eagerly, feeling that fame and fortune 
awaited the downright striker there as elsewhere. 
The sweet idyllic life of the country he had so 
much enjoyed on his journey, seemed pale and 
flavorless to him now, compared to the larger, fuller 
life he should find here. 

He plunged boldly into the labyrinth of streets, 
not knowing where to go or what he wanted to do, 
intent only on seeing the great city for himself. 
After a while he became confused, and wearied 
out with wanderings in the endless streets which 
led nowhere and came to no end. The great 
buildings he gazed at in amazement, the web of 
tracks bewildered and affrighted him, the terrific 
crash of its traffic deafened him, and the hurrying 
thousands rushing here and there confused his 
brain. 

Admiration and astonishment have their bounds, 
and soon he could wonder and admire no more; 
he could simply feel the oppression of all this new 
and startling panorama. Stunned with the stu- 
pendous spectacle, for a time he could hardly think 
or feel. But as he wandered day after day through 
the maddening maze, a terrible feeling of loneli- 
ness and friendlessness came over him. Nobody 
in all these vast throngs had a thought to spare 


IN THE CITY 


73 


him, he was to them as the insect which they trod 
beneath their feet. He had never felt before how 
unimportant is a single human life. At the end of 
a fortnight, during which time he had found nothing 
whatever to do, this oppression and loneliness be- 
came deadly. The charm of novelty had worn off 
from the streets. They seemed horrible to him. 
He hated the life he saw in the vile quarters to 
which necessity had driven him, and he loathed 
the depravity which flaunted itself before his eyes. 
On the first night that he had spent in this Infer- 
no, as he regarded it, a woman had accosted him. 
He did not at first comprehend her meaning, but 
when she made it plain to him in her brazen way, 
he struck her such a stalwart blow that she ran 
shrieking from him. 

It seemed to him that he was in hell and that 
all the devils were unloosed upon him. He was 
inexpressibly affrighted and confused. He had 
never dreamed that life could mean this to thou- 
sands of his fellow men. 

Over the litle children in the streets his heart 
bled continually. Such hopeless wretchedness as 
theirs seemed to him an indictment of humanity — 
an indictment of the Providence which permitted 
it. 

It was with all these feelings tugging at his heart 


74 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


strings that he rose one morning and looked over 
the column of ^‘Wants,’^ in a paper he picked up 
in the street. “I will strike for something better 
than I have yet tried,” he resolved. “I can do 
something else beside dig coal.” 

The result of his resolution was that in an 
hour he walked into the office of Mr. Wirt Web- 
ster, who had advertised for copyists. Mr. Web- 
ster looked up at the young giant, who accosted 
him in an unmistakably country accent, with con- 
siderable interest and curiosity. Such a noble 
specimen of mankind came rarely under the eye 
of the lawyer. His knowledge of human nature 
showed him at a glance the kind of man he had 
before him. There was no mistaking the frank- 
ness, the honesty, the quick intelligence, of this 
country face, and no mistaking to Mr. Webster’s 
practiced eye, the depression and despair which 
had seized this pure soul in the awful conflict with 
life as he had found it, in this new strange world 
of selfishness and deadly competition. 

He addressed Richard with great kindliness of 
manner and motioned him to a seat. 

“I read your advertisement,” said RicJiard, “I 
can write well, though I have ’never done copying. 
Perhaps you would let me try.” 

He had been refused roughly so many times that 


IN THE CITY 


75 


he did not speak with the confidence of a week 
ago. 

‘‘Perhaps. Let me see your hand. Copy that.^^ 
And Mr. Webster handed a letter across the 
table. 

Richard took it and quickly returned a hand- 
some copy, without a single error in it. 

“Certainly you write well sir. You can doubt- 
less do the work I have in hand; but tell me a 
little about yourself first.’’ 

“I am a stranger here. I have just come in 
from Pennsylvania.” 

“Yes, I knew that. We are all glad to get 
help from the country, you know.” 

“I shoTild not have suspected it from my experi- 
ence. I have'been everywhere and tried every- 
thing it seems to me, and you are the first person 
who has given me the least encouragement.” 

“Yes, the competition for work is fierce in New 
York. Still the new men from the country are 
often preferred by employers.” 

“My God! I should think they would be, if all 
the old hands are such as I have discovered. Are 
there any clean, respectable, working-men in New 
York, sivr 

“Yes, plenty of them. But you have not been 
in the right quarter to find them probably. There 
are plenty of the other kind too.” 


76 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


‘‘I could never have believed the things I have 
seen, had I been told them. It seems to me fright- 
ful, terrible.’^ 

‘‘It is so, but we get hardened to it after a time. 
If you stay here a few years you will grow indiffer- 
ent like the rest.” 

“Impossible. I could never grow indifferent to 
the infamy I have seen, to the wretchedness I have 
witnessed. I should have to be turned to stone 
first.’’ 

“But you will find yourself powerless to change 
it, and will accept the inevitable. I felt as you 
do when I was younger, and new to all that phase 
of life. Now I am as hard as my neighbors.” 

“No, I am sure you are not. You at least ad- 
dress a man like a human being, and you are the 
first I have met in New York who does so.” 

“Thank you. I know a man when I do see 
him, better than some, I suspect. Will you be 
able to do this work at once.^” 

And so it was arranged that Richard should have 
as much writing as he could do from Mr. Webster’s 
office, and the two men parted, mutually pleased. 

Next morning Richard returned with a part of 
the work. Mr. Webster said that there was no 
hurry about the copy being returned; he could 
wait if he chose till all was done. Then, suddenly 


IN THE CITY 


77 


bethinking himself, he took out his pocket-book, 
remarking: “I may as well pay you for the whole 
lot now. I might be out when you return it,’^ 
handing him the money for the whole. Richard 
accepted it with a simple, “Thank you,” but Mr. 
Webster noted how his hand closed upon it almost 
convulsively, and knew that the poor fellow was 
in sore need of the little sum. But he respected 
Richard’s pride, and refrained from asking him’ if 
he would like a further advance, as he had at first 
been inclined to do. 

The fact was that the young man was literally 
penniless, and that this money seemed to him not 
mere money, but life — salvation — for in this city it 
seemed to him impossible to earn one^s living, 
and he would have starved rather than begged. 

Mr. Webster talked with him for half an hour, 
and became much interested in his life and charac- 
ter. Richard told him of his life at the mine, of how 
he had obtained his education, of the strike and' 
its consequences, and of his foot journey to t^e 
city, and some of his experiences since his arrival. 

Mr. Webster saw the originality of the man 
through all the quaint and naive narration, and de- 
termined to aid the poor fellow if he could. 

It was an interesting contrast the two men pre- 
sented as they sat there, the massive frame of the 


78 


FENCING IVITH SHADOJVS 


one and the delicate build of the other, the wide 
blue eyes and blonde complexion of Richard, and 
the dark, handsome face of Mr. Webster, with his 
deep-set, luminous eyes, and finely chiseled fea- 
tures. Not greater was the contrast in looks than 
the contrast of their lives. » One born of the -Brah- 
min caste of New England, sprung from generations 
of culture, and of high moral standards, trained 
with the wisest care from earliest days, and given 
all the advantages which the schools could furnish, 
supplemented by travel and the best society, stood 
here equipped for life as few young men are equip- 
• ped, and ready to draw its highest prizes, if one 
might venture to predict his future. There had 
been no struggle for him, no need to “break his 
birth’s invidious bar,” to breast the blows of cir- 
cumstance, or to grapple with reluctant fate. All 
had been the natural unfolding of a divinely gifted 
man, to whom destiny had been kind. 

The other had fought like Paul, with worse beasts 
than those at Ephesus, and had conquered them. 
He had defied his birth, his breeding, his environ- 
ment, to keep him down, and he would yet conquer 
them all. But the struggle would leave scars. 
He might yet stand 

‘‘On Fortunes* crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope 
The centre of a world’s desire.*’ 


IN THE CITY 


79 


But he would never reach that fineness of polish, 
that elegance of culture, to which the other was 
born, whatever lofty position he might gain. The 
subtle difference will be as well known to him, as 
to his more fortunate friend, and will rankle in his 
heart, even while he defies it most bitterly. 

This country is full of such men, in the very 
highest official positions, and filling some of our 
chairs of learning, and most influential pulpits, 
and editorial chairs. They are everywhere honored, 
esteemed, and sought after. But this intangible 
thing. The one thing needful in their own estimate 
of their lives, they do not attain. It comes of 
generations of culture, and it cannot be bought at 
the shops. 

In native ability these two men are not un- 
equally matched. Their minds are. unlike, but 
they are alike powerful. One is already disci- 
plined, the other crude. One has tested his powers, 
the other is all untried. But there is a sort of kin- 
ship between the two. There is the central fact 
of Power. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE PALACE OF ART 

A little below Klosterheim is the village of Af- 
ton, a sleepy little hamlet where a few quiet peo- 
ple live who have escaped from the great city be- 
low, and love to linger in these rural solitudes. 
On the edge of this village is an old house which 
had been deserted for many years, until its pictur- 
esque points were discovered by the artist Aubrey, 
who had since made it his home. Situated on a 
high cliff overhanging the river, and as close to its 
edge as it could be built, the house had been avoided 
for a long time on account of its inaccessibility, 
and general state of forlornness and decay. These 
things pleased the artist, and he moved in as soon 
as he discovered it. The house was large and 
rambling, and had been strongly built in its day, 
but that day was long ago, and it seemed the 
embodiment of desolation at this time. But Au- 
brey patched it up a little, took its big parlors for 
a studio, hung his pictures and sketches about, 
spread rugs here and there, put fantastic draperies 
80 



THE PALACE OF ART 


81 


at the windows, and called it ‘‘The Palace of Art.’^ 
He put a tablet over the front door inscribed with 
the verse: 

“I built my soul a lordly pleasure house, 

Wherein at ease to dwell, 

I said, ‘O soul, make merry and carouse, 

Dear soul, for all is well.’” 

He then notified his few friends that he had come 
here for the express purpose of being let alone, and 
took up his etching needle. At first he was dis- 
tracted somewhat by the beauty of the view with- 
out, and would gaze over the broad verge to dis- 
tant lands, and note the blueness of the far-off line 
“where the sky dipt down to sea and sands, but 
he grew accustomed to the beauty after awhile 
and found this a royal place in which to work. 
When he stayed^ on summer after summer, his 
friends wondered a little at his infatuation, and Mr. 
Armstrong said to him one day: 

“I don’t quite see, Aubrey, how you can sit still 
here so long. To be sure I am perfectly satisfied 
myself, and don’t care to seek new worlds, but 
you, as an artist, ought, according to all traditions, 
to harry the whole earth for new views. 

“I have had enough of that. I know the Old 
World pretty well, that is, its show spots. I spent 
my early youth in Italy, and traveled a good deal 
in other parts of Europe. But I am tired of all 
that, and this work just suits me. If I should live 
6 


82 FENCING IVITH SHADOWS 

here a thousand years I should never be able to 
exhaust its beauties, for it is, like our mercies, new 
every morning. The few pictures which I shall 
make in a lifetime, will not exhaust the possibili- 
ties of sweet Afton. I am going to spend this sea- 
son trying to get those crags over there — do you 
see?’^ 

“I should think the brush would do better at 
that, than the needle.” 

“It would make a superb painting, if one could 
get it at sunset. But the coloring of nature is the 
artist’s despair. What can a brush and any colors 
we can command, do towards rendering these sun- 
sets among the high clouds.^ They used to talk of 
the exaggerations of Turner. Could you exagger- 
ate the glimpse of heavenly splendor we got last 
evening, when the heavens seemed to part, and let 
us peer into the Celestial City with all its magnifi- 
cence.^ The Great Artist himself could scarcely 
exaggerate the gorgeousness of that sky.” 

“It was indeed one of the finest cloud displays 
I have ever seen, and it was even more beautiful 
in fading than when at the height of its glory.” 

“Did you not see those billows of fire rolling up 
from the north } Such a molten sea of color, eye 
never saw before, I verily believe. Think of trying 
to reproduce those crimsons, those scarlets, those 


THE PALACE OF ART 


83 


purples — or that living gold, with paint, to say 
nothing of those finer shades of color for which 
there are no words — those subtle, delicate, fleeting 
hues which shade with each other with such incon- 
ceivable lightness that no eye can note the grad- 
ations. They are films of divine delicacy, flakes 
of light with a hint of color in them, and in variety 
they are so multitudinous that no mind can con- 
ceive their number. Or, take an evening when the 
whole sky is a shadowless, unsullied crimson, or a 
dead mass of gold, how are you going to paint 
that.^^ Or even the intense hollow blue of the 
vault above, at midday, or sometime when it is 
flecked with floating masses of white. How are 
you going to paint those clouds.? You can paint 
patches of white on a blue back ground, but how 
are you going to manage the light.? Nobody has 
yet painted clouds, their forms alone, to say noth- 
ing of their coloring. But I would sooner try to 
manage the stormy blood-red of the most lurid sun- 
set — the most evanescent of the purples and the 
sea greens — than these same simple white clouds 
in the- intense blue of the upper sky.” 

^‘Nobody has succeeded in that as yet. The in- 
tensity of light, so dazzlingly clear, cannot be imi- 
tated.” 

‘‘No, we artists must learn our limitations. 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


Turner made a mad dash at nature just as she is. 
His courage was magnificent. He tried some of 
her grandest spectacles, and outdid the world at 
them too, but they don’t look like the real thing, 
spite of Ruskin. You know them for paint every 
time. So with all the nobler colorists. As human 
execution, the work is wonderful, nobody but an 
artist knows how wonderful, but the serenity, the 
sublimity, the space of nature, where are they.^ 
No, one must not be too ambitious. Little bits of 
light and shade we can do, do well, with the needle, 
let us be content with that. At least let the little 
men be content with that. When the great artist 
is born, he will paint once more in the old broad 
way, attempting even the new heavens and the 
new earth doubtless, as the great men have 
always done. I should like to witness his advent. 
In the meantime I draw trees. See this last study, 
Armstrong. 

‘‘Exquisite, Aubrey. You had real delight in 
that bit of work, I know. How I should like to 
make those careful studies of trees myself. It 
must be fascinating, all the preliminary work you 
artists do. I envy you the studies you make. I 
could make them myself, if I had time, but the 
final artistic touches would be beyond me forever.” 

“Perhaps not if you had begun your training in 


THE PALACE OF ART 


85 


youth as I did, but your habits of keen obser- 
vation would be of royal worth in the studies.’^ 
“Yes, I have trained my eyes for my own work, 
so that I can see what is really before me, which 
is much more than the mass of men have done. 
How blind people are ! Did you ever notice in 
walking or riding with them, how little they really 
see of what they are passing through.^” 

“Yes indeed. The majority of men have no eyes 
worth speaking about. They don’t even know a 
hawk from a handsaw, as Hamlet did.” 

“Now in my natural history studies, of course I 
am always belittling my vision, and I presume I 
don’t see things in the large way you do, at all, 
Aubrey. But I do like wide horizons for all that. 
I look off, to rest my vision. The microscope is 
a deadly thing for the eyes, if overdone. I have 
always been afraid of narrowing my vision, and 
have tried to avoid it, narrowing it I mean physic- 
ally, as well as spiritually.” 

“One wouldn’t like to be like Darwin in his later 
years, a mere student of the minutiae. To think 
he couldn’t read poetry any more, and was bored 
by a page of Shakspeare ! It was too big a price to 
pay for his greatness, to my mind.” 

“You’re not ambitious, Aubrey.” 

“No I am not, and for that reason will never 


86 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


be much of an artist. But I wouldn’t give my 
seeing eye, ahd my enjoying mind, for all the fame 
in the world. If one has to sacrifice himself, en- 
tirely, to his work, I confess I can’t see what he 
gains. Wfhat doth it profit a man, Armstrong, if 
he gain the whole world and lose his own soul.^” 

‘‘You and I feel alike about that. Consequently 
we shall never be anything more than dilletanti in 
art or science, I suspect, but we shall live, and 
that is more to the purpose.” 

“True. No really great art without a surrender 
of the whole man to it. You must be possessed 
of it, and let it lead you where it will. You must 
forsake father and mother and cleave to your art, 
till life shall end too. It’s much the same with 
science. A mere lifetime is nothing in her service. 
The illimitable periods of science are appalling. 
Let her wait for eternity, man, and enjoy this little 
atom of time, while you have it. You’re not so 
sure of the vast forever.” 

“I have had fifty very good years here. But 
I confess I don’t much care for the remnant of life 
left. One hates to fail, and go to pieces gradually. 
Ordinary old age is very repulsive to me.” 

“Ordinary old age, like ordinary middle age, or 
even youth, is not an attractive thing. But you 
have not had an ordinary youth and there is no 


THE PALACE OF ART 


87 


reason why you should have an ordinary old age. 
You have twenty as good working years left as 
any you have had.’^ 

“Yes, I grant that. At least they should be, if 
I can keep up my interest in my work, and in the 
outside world, but it drags a little even now.’^ 

“Life will never drag with me while I have my 
eyes left. Without them it would not be worth 
living for a day. My only real pleasure in the 
world is nature. I live in admiration.’^ 

“You and I are both rich there. But many 
men as they grow old have no resources of that 
kind, none in any intellectual enjoyment. Did 
you read a story the other day, of an old English 
squire whose chief pleasure in life had been hunt- 
ing. He had grown old and had literally no re- 
sources within himself for passing the weary hours. 
He was so decrepit that he could not walk or ride, 
so he had himself bolstered up in a cart, with a 
man or two to support him and carry his gun, and 
he went out every day in that manner to shoot 
rabbits. He went out on the very last day of his 
life and died in the cart. Think of a life like 
that.” 

“There are many just as worthless. If they don’t 
narrow themselves down to shooting rabbits they 
do something equally mean and small, play cards 
for instance.” 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


S8 

“Probably your work and mine looks to them as 
even more useless than shooting rabbits.’’ 

“No doubt of that. It is all in the point of view.” 

“Are you never coming over to see us again.? 
You have not seen Victoria since she came back, I 
believe.” 

“I’m coming sometime. I want to see Kloster- 
heim badly, and Mrs. Armstong, and particularly 
Victoria, who has bloomed into a beauty, I hear.” 

“Yes, Victoria has improved. She is in royal 
health and at the very height of youthful life. She 
is quite a picture.” 

“Take care of her. Throw her books to the 
dogs, and don’t let her vex her soul with any more 
study. College life for women is all wrong. If 
she has really come through safe, be thankful, and 
don’t test her endurance any further. Turn her 
into the woods, and let her browse. These new- 
fangled women who take prizes for Greek odes, and 
all that, are entirely unnatural creations. If you 
hadn’t one of them I’d say monstrosities.” 

“Nonsense, Aubrey, what is a woman going to 
do with her mind, if God has given her one.? You 
can’t keep such a woman as Victoria from develop- 
ing her intellect, unless you knock her brains out. 
She has a mind as good as yours or mine, and 
can’t expend it on cats or dogs or fancy work any 


THE PALACE OF ART 


89 


more than we could. The majority of women 
haven’t any minds to speak of, though we do con- 
cede them souls now-a-days. They will be con- 
tented to the end of time no doubt, with em- 
broidery and crocheting, and perhaps a little ama- 
teur painting, but there is another class abroad to- 
day, and we’ve got to give them a chance.’’ 

“They may have all the chances there are, for 
all of me. I don’t care to repress them. But I 
don’t believe in them all the same. Women and 
intellect don’t go well together. The less a woman 
knows the more attractive she is.” 

“Then a bona fide idiot would be your ideal. 
They have never seemed quite charming to me, 
but every one to his taste.” 

“Oh, you must draw a line somewhere, I draw 
mine just above the professional idiot, but far, far 
below the Greek prize specimen.” 

“I wonder you have not found your divinity yet, 
the kind you seem to admire are so common. A 
fool can be had for the asking, even a well-bred 
fool, which I suppose you would demand.” 

“I am not looking for a divinity of any kind. 
Women palled upon my taste long ago. At 
present I should not feel concerned if the human 
race were all of one sex.” 

“You have my sympathies. You’re even worse 


90 


FENCING IVITH SH^DOIVS 


off than I thought. You outdo Webster, who 
cares the least for women of any young man I 
ever knew. Your heart must be petrifying. You’re 
not over thirty-five, Aubrey, and it’s all wrong for 
you to feel so. You need a shock from some fair 
lady’s eyes to start your blood circulating. I 
would as soon be a mummy as such aman.’^ And 
Mr. Armstrong went off laughing, as Aubrey fired 
a paint brush at his head. 

The two men were firm friends, and scarcely 
cared for any other society since they became 
thus intimate. Mr. Armstrong made most of the 
visits, taking the ‘‘Palace of Art” in during his long 
walks, and enjoying every moment of his friend’s 
society to the utmost. At Klosterheim he could 
not always have him to himself, and he did not at 
all care to visit with him in the presence of others. 
So he preferred his studio and it came about that 
Aubrey had not seen Victoria since her late home- 
coming. 


CHAPTER X 


LIZELLE AND HER FRIENDS 

On one of the last golden days of September, 
Mr. Wirt Webster took the afternoon boat for a 
visit at Klosterheim. He had been there twice 
since the June day when Victoria was in town in 
search of a servant. He was gratified to hear of 
the favorable outcome of his recommendation of 
Mrs. Barry, She was now a much esteemed 
personage at Klosterheim and seemed likely to be- 
come a fixture there, as she stoutly declared that 
no earthly power could ever induce her to return 
to the city, and the family as stoutly asserted that 
it would be utterly impossible to conduct domestic 
affairs at Klosterheim without her. The arrange- 
ment seemed to be one of mutual benefit. Mode- 
rate and well paid service in exchange for a com- 
fortable home for herself and child was a boon to 
a woman like Mrs. Barry, while good, reliable 
work, and oversight on the part of the servant, 
seemed an inestimable blessing to Mrs. Armstrong 
after her long trials with the vagrant help she had 
91 


92 


FENCING IVITH SHADOWS 


been obliged to put up with as a part of the penalty 
of country life. Kitty also rendered herself use- 
ful in a thousand ways, and was almost as much 
valued, as laughed at, in the family. Lizelle in 
a different way was more prized than either. She 
had not yet grown strong and well, as they had 
all hoped, and a third servant had been procured by 
Mrs. Barry to do the work first laid out for Lizelle. 
But that young person had many and useful offices 
to perform in spite of that. Mrs. Armstrong was 
already very fond of her, and Lizelle had become 
her co-worker in all the lighter affairs of the house. 
By this time she relieved Mrs. Armstrong of many 
of the smaller cares from which that good lady 
had never hoped to escape, and was day by day 
growing more indispensable to her comfort. Vic- 
toria, too, relied upon her for many of the things 
which for some time she had been obliged to do 
herself, in the absence of capable hands. Even 
Mr. Armstrong had begun to ask her to do various 
little things for him. He would even allow her to 
dust his books and cabinets, a thing he had never 
intrusted to servants’ hands before. Lizelle was 
divinely happy here. Already the old life seemed 
but a troubled dream, and the new one the natural 
way of living. Joy comes, grief goes, she knows 
not how; she only knows that she is in a heavenly 


LIZELLE AND HER FRIENDS 


93 


atmosphere of love and kindness and safety, and 
she asks no questions of fate, as to how this magical 
transformation has been wrought. She only seeks 
to deserve her happiness and to prolong it. Her 
devotion to the family is very touching to them 
all. ^ Mrs. Armstrong had been ill during the sum- 
mer, and Lizelle constituted herself sole nurse, 
and watched by her with incredible assiduity and 
patience. She knew nothing of sickness and im- 
agined Mrs. Armstrong much more seriously ill 
than she was in reality, and nearly broke her warm 
little heart with sorrow and dread. One day as 
she sat by the bed she leaned over and kissed Mrs. 
Armstrong’s hand that lay outside the bed clothes, 
at the same time covering it with tears, and falter- 
ing between her sobs; “Don’t die, oh don’t die, 
I can’t have you die, I love you so.’^ 

Mrs. Armstrong was greatly touched by the 
tenderness of the girl, as well as her humility. 
The whole thing was done much as an affection- 
ate dog might have done it, could he have spoken, 
There was not a thought of any return of this in- 
tense devotion, only the joy of the devotion itseli. 

“Oh I am not going to die, my dear. Do not 
trouble so much about me. I am only tired out, 
and now that I have you to relieve me so much, 
I shall soon grow strong again. You ar^ a great 


94 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


comfort to me, Lizelle. But you must not worry.” 
And she patted the golden head with her soft hand 
and smiled a sweet, motherly smile. 

Now she was well again, and Lizelle sang all 
day at her tasks, her heart filled with love and 
gratitude. In her little Bible she had discovered 
the psalms of thanksgiving, and read them every 
night and morning until she knew them by heart, 
and they became a part of her daily thought. No 
heart ever repeated them with such absolute sin- 
cerity as Lizelle. She felt as though they had 
been written for her by some one who knew her 
feelings better than she did herself. The impreca- 
tory psalms horrified her, as much as those of 
thanksgiving moved and pleased her. She knew 
nothing of what the Bible really is, and supposed 
from her mother’s injunctions to read it, that it 
was all alike good and sacred, but by a sort of 
natural selection she soon had a Bible of her own, 
containing only what seemed good to her warm 
and loving heart, and leaving all the rest to wiser 
heads than her own. 

Mr. Webster had learned all this good news 
during his former visits, and was therefore not un- 
prepared to meet Victoria and Lizelle together in 
the woods just before he reached the rustic bridge 
which spanned the beautiful ravine. They were 


LIZELLE AND HER FRIENDS 


95 


accompanied by two or three of the dogs, and were 
loaded down with ferns and flowers, the spoils of 
their long ramble. Victoria took Lizelle with her 
now on many of her woodland walks, both for her 
own sake and that of the delicate girl, who was 
afraid to go out alone, but who enjoyed with the 
utmost intensity the free, fresh country where the 
commonest sights were new to her. She looked 
very charming this evening in her delicate blue 
gingham dress and wide-brimmed hat encircled 
with a wreath of wild roses. A slight color flushed 
her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright from 
the fresh air and exercise. She ran away with 
the dogs when she saw Mr. Webster approaching, 
but that gentleman had not failed to take note of 
her beauty and grace. 

“Who is the fleeing nymph,” he asked, after 
greeting Victoria, and relieving her of her load of 
blossoms.” 

“Oh that is our Lizelle, you heard us tell of her 
when you were here last, did you not.^^” 

“Yes, indeed. And how does she enjoy the 
country now.?” 

“She is as much enchanted as ever. It is a 
great pleasure to go out with her, she is so enthu- 
siastic, and so appreciative. We are all getting very 
fond of her.” 


96 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


“She is quite a picture. It seems a great pity 
that such a girl should not have a chance in the 
world.’’ 

“That is what we all think, and she is going to 
have a chance. She is more friend than servant 
already, to all of us, and mother is beginning to 
regard her as a daughter almost. She is very use- 
ful to all of us, and will continue to be so, but it 
will be as a sort of adopted child I foresee, before 
long.” 

“I am very glad to hear it, for she looks as 
though she might deserve it.” 

“And to think of what might have happened to 
her if she had not accidentally fallen into my 
hands that day. It makes me shudder to think of 
it. I shall never get over my visit to the Fourth 
Ward, Mr. Webster. I never knew before how my 
fellow creatures lived, and since I have heard 
Lizelle’s story I am constantly thinking how other 
girls are still there, living the life that she lived 
and subject to all the dangers which she has 
escaped. It haunts me, and I am quite unhappy.” 

“Can one really be unhappy at Klosterheim — and 
in September?” said Mr. Webster smiling. “This 
armful of flowers wipes the city out of my mind 
completely, and I don’t think I could recall the 
Fourth Ward to memory, if I tried.” 


LJZELLE AND HER FRIENDS 


97 


“Well, it is hard for me to remember it too. 
But I insist upon recalling it to my mind. I will 
not forget it. And these lovely days when I walk 
through the happy autumn fields, I continue to 
think, not of the days that are no more, as the 
poet did, but of the dreadful days that still are, 
in the tenement houses of New York.’’ 

“That is too bad. It is almost sacrilege to carry 
such thoughts into such woods as these. Pray 
banish them, and remember only the goldenrod, 
and the aster. Purple and gold for to-day at 
least.” 

“You tempt me just as everything else does here, 
to a life of indulgence and selfish ease,” she an- 
swered smiling. “It is very hard to remember 
others when your own lot is so pleasant.” 

“You will have years enough for self-denial and 
care for others, when you are older. Youth should 
never be sacrificed. It would be criminal folly to 
give up the few royal years of one’s life, to the 
work which will surely keep, and with which one 
may solace one’s self when youth and joy are 
over.” 

He spoke earnestly, and looked at her with 
serious eyes. 

“But one may not live to be old, and so miss 
one’s opportunity. Sometimes it seems to me 
7 


FENCING JVITH SHNDOJVS 


wrong to lose a day. I don’t think I should dare 
to, if I knew what to do. But I do not, and it is 
of that I think, during these long walks with Lizelle 
over the hills and through these beautiful old 
woods. Sometimes I wish that I had nothing to 
do but enjoy them as Lizelle does. Isn’t it strange 
that Lizelle, who has just come out of all that 
blackness, can forget it and be :?s happy as a bird, 
while it stays by me so.^ And she cannot help me 
at all in trying to plan some work for those she 
has left behind. She doesn’t even like to talk 
about it much. She seems to want to forget it, 
while I am determined to remember it forever.” 

“She is a wise little heart. Let her forget it as 
soon as possible. One can see at a glance she has 
no vocation for helping the world along.” 

“Do I look as if I had such a vocation.?” 

“No, I can’t say that I think you do. You 
would better let nature have her and enjoy 

your life without too much anxious care for 
others.” 

“But that I shall never be able to do. I can 
see clearly that only women such as I, who have 
leisure and some degree of intelligence, can help 
such girls as Lizelle. They can never work their 
own way out. They are bound hand and foot. 
And we who are strong and free and who have re- 


LIZELLE AND HER FRIENDS 


99 


ceived a call which we cannot escape, must come 
to their help. Lizelle must take up a life of quiet 
domesticity for which she was evidently born, 
while I just as surely must take up one of labor 
and sacrifice, for helpless women and children. 
“But not just yet,” she added more lightly. “I 
have compromised with myself. I am going to 
enjoy all the splendors of an autumn at Kloster- 
heim before I think very seriously about it. Don’t 
you want to leave the flowers on the porch, — 
Lizelle will take care of them^ — and come and 
see the phloxes and asters in the garden. Father 
has a beautiful show of both just now.” 

So they passed on into the old-fashioned flower- 
garden where they lingered until tea was an- 
nounced. 

When they left the dining-room and came out 
again upon the broad piazza they found Mr. Au- 
brey there. 

“You have quite forgotten me no doubt. Miss 
Armstrong,” he said extending his hand, “but I 
claim very old acquaintanceship with you neverthe- 
less. We used to run races together here before 
you went away to become a learned lady.” 

“Yes, I have a lively recollection of the time. 
I am afraid I was not very dignified as a child. I 
am very glad to know that we still have you for a 




100 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


neighbor. Father tells me that the ^Talace of 
Art” still clings to the cliff.” 

^‘Yes and I to it, more closely than ever. I 
scarcely see the city twice a year now. I used to 
spend the winters there, but now I consider the 
winters as my best time to work> In the summer 
I make my sketches and in the winter I work them 
up. It is hard to do either in the autumn. There 
are so many distractions of color. You have 
enough to do to use your eyes, and your hands 
grow idle.” 

“I am always threatening to come and see your 
nest, Aubrey,” said Mr. Webster, “but Xloster- 
heim takes all my leisure. This is my third trip 
this season, and I have been nowhere else.” 

“We will walk over in the morning if you like, 
Webster,” said Mr. Armstrong, “it is one of my 
favorite tramps, and Aubrey has got a thing or 
two there worth seeing.” 

“Yes, the cliffs of the opposite shore, Webster, 
are really worth your while. I have been working 
all summer trying to make a satisfying picture of 
them. But they are not good sitters. They 
never don the same expression twice. They are 
as elusive as a beautiful woman.” 

“And Aubrey knows just how elusive they are,” 
laughed Mr. Armstrong. “They’ve all eluded him 
thus far, as they have you, Webster.” 


LIZELLE AND HER FRIENDS 101 

“Then we are fellow sufferers, Aubrey. I shall 
have to come and visit you. You have an en- 
chanting occupation. If I had been blessed with 
the gift I craved, I too should have been an artist. 
One should be very happy who has the gift.’^ 

“Oh when you talk about happiness, I suppose 
we are all much alike. Armstrong enjoys his bee- 
tles, as much as I do my clouds, I suspect, though 
hew a man can sacrifice his life to beetles is 
mysterious to me, and you no doubt enjoy your 
cases. A man who can make a fine speech, as 
you can Webster, has a more concentrated delight 
I think than any other creature. I envy the man 
of speech. The return in applause is instantan- 
eous, and there is an excitement about it which 
none of the rest of us get.’’ 

“But the occasions for great speaking are rare, 
and the long interims of drudgery are not inspiring. 
But I love my profession. Too well, my friends 
begin to tell me. It narrows a man down. I should 
like a change to wide horizons for a time.” 

“Wide horizons are the only really satisfactor}^ 
things in life,” ajiswered Aubrey. “I can’t live a 
week without them now. I am spoiled for com- 
mon life. The sky has done it.” 

“I should love to do nothing but study the sky 
for a year or two myself,” said Victoria, “if I had 
the time.” 


102 


FENCING IVITH SHAD01VS 


“And pray who ht.3 more time than you, Miss 
Armstrong? You’ve got at least ten years more 
to count on than I, I am sure. And I recklessly 
expend my little remnant of days in so good a 
cause. 

“Well you are an artist, and your contemplation 
is not thrown away. Mine would only be a form 
of self-indulgence.’^ 

“A great deal of time is wasted in work, my dear 
young friend, that might be passed usefully in con- 
templation. Many people throw away a day in 
some drudgery or other, which they might have 
enjoyed in seeing the sky or trees. Their loss is 
irreparable. They will never get their day back. 
Don’t fall into that error, my child, but put in your 
days where they will do the most good.” 

“I cannot believe that would be in idle reverie 
and dreaming. These have their place, no doubt. 
But they are relaxations and not the serious busi- 
ness of life.” 

“Oh this serious business of life is fearfully over- 
done in these times. Don’t pay any attention to 
people when they talk of it to you. Get acquainted 
with the world around you, that is business enough 
for one life time,” 

“Supposing all the world should become of 
your mind, who would run the world then?” 


LIZELLE AND HER FRIENDS 


103 


“God. And do it a great deal better than we 
should.” 

“But even God works through human helpers 
here. If we are humble enough He will perhaps 
show us what He wants us to do,” said Victoria 
earnestly. 

“But the trouble is,” said Aubrey, “that we are 
not humble enough. We are vain enough to think 
that God can’t run the universe without our puny 
help. Sometimes we are impious enough to think 
that we could run it more successfully ourselves 
if we had a chance. There are men who would 
like to have God abdicate in their favor, and let 
them set the world to rights. For my part I sing 
the song of Pippi Passing 

‘•God’s in his heaven, 

All’s right with the world.” 

“Seriously, Mr Aubrey, do you think that Do 
you think there is nothing for men and women to 
do, to make the world better and happier.^ Are 
we called to no work for our fellows.^ Is there not 
such a thing as duty.^” 

“Lowell says: ‘Men follow duty, never over- 
take.’ Yet there is such a thing as duty no doubt. 
But every man must be fully persuaded in his own 
mind, and not follow what other people say is his 
duty. Ask the soul, that will answer right.” 

“Mine says follow beauty, ” he added laughing and 


/ 


104 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


pointing at the clouds, “it’s our present duty to 
observe that opaline sky with the amethyst tint 
just edging it. See the purple shadows in the 
north, Armstrong.” Then he added somewhat 
abruptly: 

“I must be getting back, and we can talk as we 
go. So come home with me, all of you.” 

Victoria went inside for a shawl, and when she 
returned Aubrey and Mr. Armstrong were far down 
the walk. So she and Mr. Webster followed at 
a little distance and at a much slower pace. 
“Father will see Mr. Aubrey quite home, we may 
be sure.” said Victoria, “and we shall see no more 
of them. They can never get quite enough of each 
other. I always feel like a superfluous woman 
when father has such a friend around. I know 
they quite look down upon me, and it is not al- 
together pleasant.” 

“Let us keep out of their way, then, by all 
means. Here is a pleasant path which leads the 
other way, and I will promise faithfully to look up 
to you, and not down upon you,” said Mr. Webster 
smiling, and leading the way up the cloven ravine 
with its carpet of soft moss, and its fringe of wav- 
ing ferns. 

Their stroll was a long one, and twilight was 
deepening into night when they returned, through 


LIZELLE AND HER FRIENDS 


105 


the shaded path and over the rustic bridge. They 
had never been alone before, and they had uncon- 
sciously struck deeper subjects of conversation, 
deeper chords of feeling too, than in the more 
superficial themes of any party of friends. We 
never really know our friend before others. It is 
only when we are alone with him that we see face 
to face. There is a sort of shamefacedness in 
which we avoid earnestness and deep feeling, when 
numbers are with us, which we are able to banish 
when we are left with one alone. So these two 
began their real acquaintance that night in the 
gloaming of the cleft ravine, and when they parted 
in the morning it was as friends, where heretofore 
it had been but as acquaintances. They lingered 
a little over that parting, and each one had thoughts 
of the other, when the distance separated them, 
and the thoughts would be with them long. 


CHAPTER XI 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE 

The next morning Mr. Webster was sitting in 
his office, idle fora wonder, and in rather a dreamy 
mood, when Richard Savage entered He was 
frequently at the office now, and Mr. Webster en- 
joyed a chat with him. This morning he was not 
inclined to work at all, and he invited Richard to 
be seated and began to question him as to his 
growing acquaintance with the city. 

“Yes, I am getting pretty well acquainted with 
the outside of things. I have a good deal of time 
on my hands, and not much to do except what I 
get here, so I explore. I have learned a good 
deal, but the knowledge is not of a kind which 
makes me happier or better, so perhaps it were 
as well not gained. I have picked up a book or 
two and in one of them I came upon a passage 
which was written by a man who had doubtless 
seen what I have seen and more, and I am much 
afraid I shall get to feel about life as he did if I 
106 


OhIE MORE UNFORTUNATE 


107 


keep on learning about this side of it. Did you 
ever hear the passage?’’ 

“For the world which seems 
To lie before us like a land of dreams, 

So various, so beautiful, so new, 

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; 

And we are here as on a darkling plain 
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight 
Where ignorant armies clash by night.” 

“Yes, that is a famous verse of Matthew 
Arnold’s. But I hardly think he arrived at that 
pessimistic view of life by your present path. He 
was not so much a humanitarian as a scholar, and 
his despair came of griefs of thought, rather than 
sorrow for the material ills of his fellowmen, I 
think.” 

“Well, the passage is a splendid description of 
the state of mind I am getting into, by studying 
human life right here. I am getting lost.” 

“That comes of seeing only one side. One might 
go mad if he lived always in sight of the wrongs 
and sorrow of this world, with no glimpse of all 
the good there is in it.” 

“I believe you. I have been living for several 
weeks in the lowest hell. I have determined to 
know just how bad things are, before I try to think 
out what ought to be done. I have spent night 
after night exploring the worst parts of the city, 
and seeing sights which no man should ever see if 
he hopes for a happy life, and it has driven me to 


108 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


utter despair for my kind. Good God, what a 
world this is! Have you ever seen these things, 
Mr. Webster.?’’ 

“Yes. I know something of what you mean. 
I had an idea when I was younger, that I could 
reform the world. I began somewhat as you are 
beginning. I ended by making up my mind that 
the job was too big for me, that human nature 
could not be much changed in the lifetime of one 
man, and that as long as human beings remain 
what they now are, no human power can lift them 
on to much higher ground.” 

“And so you concluded to abandon them to 
their terrible fate. Do all earnest men end there, 
Mr. Webster?” 

“Not all. There are a few men born to be re- 
formers. ' They give their lives to it, as a man 
needs must, if he is to accomplish anything worth 
while. I was much inclined that way myself for 
a time. But selfishness got the better of me, and 
I concluded to live my own life as well as I could, 
and help the world only incidentally.” 

“It is the magnitude of the misery that leads 
one to that, I suppose. When I see the little chil- 
dren, in their hideous homes, so wretched, so 
wronged, so doomed by their very surroundings, I 
think I must begin somewhere, and devote my 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE 


109 


whole life to saving them. Then when I go on to 
the streets and see these outcast women, ruined 
themselves, and ruining others, as the business of 
their lives, so horrible does their lot seem, so in- 
effably loathsome and revolting, that I see clearly 
nobody else will come to their rescue, and I feel 
that I must make a life-long struggle for their 
cause alone, that I cannot leave things as they 
are, but must change them for the better; and 
when I go to the places where men and women 
drink the days and nights away, I wonder if this is 
not my work, to lead a crusade against this fright- 
ful evil. Where there is so much to be done one 
gives way as you did to despair, and does nothing. 
I understand it. I may end there yet, but I feel 
now that if I had a hundred lives, I should give 
them all to this work of redemption. 

‘‘With that feeling you will do much. We who 
get accustomed to the ‘turbid ebb and flow of 
human misery’ as Matthew Arnold calls it, lose 
that enthusiasm of humanity, which alone achieves 
results. We who grow indifferent learn to de- 
pend upon the evolution of humanity, and wait the 
long periods of time which the evolution of a bet- 
ter era will take, with an equanimity, which may 
be selfish but is as certainly comfortable.’^ 

“I believe in evolution too. But can’t we help 
evolution along 


110 


FENCING IVITH SHADOJVS 


“Yes, if we go to work intelligently. Ignorance 
cannot do much, science everything. You can do 
nothing effectual without knowledge. Will you 
take a little advice from one who knows how you 
feel, and who has had more experience than you 
have?” 

“With all my heart I should thank you, sir. I 
am in a maze of doubt and trouble.” 

“I have just come in from the country, just a 
little way out, where I have a friend who wants 
an amanuensis or private secretary. He is a 
naturalist and is working on an important book. 
You could do his work, and I could get you the 
place. You have taken as large a dose of the city 
as you can stand just now. Go out there and re- 
cover your balance. He has a fine library, and 
you can study social science in your leisure, of 
which you will have a great deal, for Mr. Arm- 
strong is a slow worker, and after a time you will 
be able to arrive at some definite conclusion as to 
what you would like to do.” 

“But is it not wrong to desert now, wnhe I see 
so much to be done?” 

“You will work ignorantly now, and be likely to 
do harm as well as good. You will ultimately be 
able to do much more if you take time for prepa- 
ration,” 


ONE MORE UN FOR TUNA TE 111 

“I should be glad to go if I thought it right to 
do so. This life is killing me. I will never give 
up my idea of working, but I should like a little 
time for rest and thought.’^ 

‘^You need it too. The strain has been too 
great for you. You will do well to accept the 
place. It may be long before you have another 
chance like this. You will find the home delight- 
ful, and the family sympathetic. Miss Armstrong 
is almost as much of an enthusiast as you are.” 

So it was arranged that Richard should accept 
the situation, and go at once, and he left Mr. Web- 
ster with many thanks for all his kindness. 

Richard, like most inexperienced travelers, found 
himself at the wharf long before the time for the 
afternoon boat to leave the landing. As he was 
wandering aimlessly about, his attention was at- 
tracted by the appearance of a young and beauti- 
ful girl, who walked in a furtive manner, looking 
back over her shoulder, and evidently afraid of 
being watched. 

Richard was too new to the city, and to the 
constant procession of unfortunate women who 
seek to rid themselves of the lives they have found 
unendurable, to suspect this one of any such de- 
sign. But he watched her from mere idleness, 
and was horrified to see her give one last hurried 


112 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


look about her, and then throw herself into the 
river. He dashed down the bank, waited until he 
saw her rise a little distance from the shore, then 
plunged in and seized her, in spite of her wild 
efforts to beat' him back, and swam for the shore. 
The girl struggled desperately, but he had little 
difficulty in landing her safely on the bank. Here 
he supported her in his arms, and wiped the water 
from her face with his handkerchief, murmuring: 

“My poor child, my poor child, how could you 
do so dreadful a thing, until she was able to speak, 
when she turned her dark beautiful eyes upon him 
and answered: 

“How dared you bring me back.^ Am I not even 
owner of my own life.^ What right have you to 
interfere with me.^’’ 

Her tones were passionate, her anger intense, 
her disappointment terrible. She drew away from 
his supporting arms and said quietly but defiantly: 

“I will not live, nevertheless. You have had 
your trouble for nothing. Take my advice, sir, 
and save no more lives. When one wishes to die 
it is his right to do so. You have no business to 
thrust him back into his anguish against his will.’’ 

“But my poor girl, you are so young, life must 
have some chance for you yet. Try it once more, 
and ask God to help you live it well.” 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE 


113 


^^Don’t talk to me of God. I have heard all 
that before. I used to bejieve in it, and in the 
pretty fiction, that he is our father and cares for his 
children. I used to read about his hearing the 
young ravens, and noting the fall of the sparrows. 
But I have proved it all to be a lie. He would 
never have allowed me to be deserted, had there 
been any truth in the pleasant story.’’ 

She spoke with passionate bitterness, and rose 
to her feet. He then perceived that she was about 
to become a mother. She shrank from his gaze, 
and cried out with wild displeasure: 

‘‘You shall not look at me that way. I do not 
want your pity, or your help. I am not what you 
think. But my only friend has left me, and though 
I know he will come back, I cannot wait, don’t 
you see I cannot wait any longer for him.^’ It is 
time for me to get out of the way, before all the 
world knows, and you, sir, oh, how cruel you have 
been. You have forced me to live, and now what 
do you think will become of me.^” 

She was almost frenzied in her anguish, and 
Richard for a moment deeply regretted his act, 
but he spoke kindly and soothingly to her once 
more. 

“You have made me live, you have forced me 
to face the world with my secret, and whatever I 
8 


114 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


become you alone will be- to blame for it. Sup- 
posing I become like the women of the streets, 
you will have that to answer for too. Oh God, 
my God! how can I live, how can I live.? I cannot 
and I will not.’^ And she ran wildly down the river 
bank with her dripping garments clinging to her 
limbs. Richard rose to his feet trembling with 
dismay. What should he do now.? Follow 
her and prevent her destroying herself as she 
wished, or allow her to finish a life which had be- 
come a burden and might become a curse? He 
thought rapidly of the poor creatures he had seen 
in the steets, whose lots were so unutterably* dread- 
ful to him, and he asked himself if he dared save 
her for that. Death had seemed to him ever since 
he had known about them, as the only hope, he 
would have blotted them all out of existence at a 
stroke if he could have done so, it seemed the 
supreme blessing in his eyes for each and every 
one. Yet now when it was an individual, and 
not a class, that was concerned, every instinct was 
to save, every feeling one of horror at the thought 
of such untimely death. No, he was not God, he 
did not dare take the responsibility of allowing 
her to die, he must save her from herself, even 
though she cursed him for the act. He ran swiftly 
after her, and found her in the charge of a police- 


OhIE MORE UNFORTUNATE 


]15 


man. He began to explain but was cut short by 
the officer. 

“I know, I know! We see ’em every day. 
Leave her to me.^’ 

The girl begged of the officer to be allowed to 
go home. 

“I will go directly home. I will promise not to 
try again. God will not let me escape so easily. 
I take it as his command to live. You may be sure 
of me. But, oh, do not disgrace me. I have 
never been disgraced. Nobody need ever know 
how wicked I would have been. Just let me go 
my own way, please, please, sir.” 

“Well, go your way then, and don’t let me see 
you hereabouts again,” the man answered roughly 
but not unkindly. 

The girl darted away like a scared fawn, and 
the two men watched her as she made her way 
back from the river toward the city. 

“She won’t try it again,” said the officer; “they 
are all superstitious, and if they are rescued once, 
they take it ks an omen, and won’t try it again.” 

“You see a good deal of this kind of thing, then 

“Yes, that is a part of my work down here. But 
that girl wasn’t one of the usual class. She’s a 
respectable girl who has got into trouble, and can't 
stand the exposure. That’s what she is — see it 
at a glance.” 


116 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


Richard moved away with the feeling of being 
lost and helpless in the midst of this seething sea 
of misery, intensified and deepened. 

What the girl had said about God rung in his 
eas. 

He had lost his boat, and as he made his 
way back to his lodgings, he kept pondering her 
words. God allowed this to be. He allowed those 
other women to exist, allowed those helpless little 
children to suffer, to grow up with no hope of any 
life but this life of infamy and anguish, he allowed 
the man to mislead this beautiful girl, and to de- 
sert her, leaving her to bear all this terrible trial 
alone, he even prospered him perhaps, with an out- 
ward prosperity, and allowed the world to pet and 
pamper him. God! was that a mere name then, 
and was there no power which makes for righteous- 
ness in this wide universe Richard trembled as 
the doubt came over him for the first time, but he 
fought it back manfully, saying to himself: ‘Ht 
is I who am blind, who am ignorant; there is a God 
and a God who cares, spite of these dreadful 
things.’’ 


CHAPTER XII 


A SEPTEMBER DAY 

It was not long before Mr. Webster began to 
think of visiting Klosterheim again, this time osten- 
sibly to look after Richard Savage, and to tell Mr. 
Armstrong a little more about him than he had 
felt at liberty to write. It was one of the rarest 
of the late September days, and Mr. Webster en- 
joyed the little journey to the utmost. The river 
had been familiar to him for the greater part of 
his life, but it was not less interesting to him on 
that account. He knew all its varied beauties by 
heart, and sought each one with the deepest zest. 
Just how the vines trailed over the cliffs in certain 
places, just where the tiny flowerets grew in the 
clefts, just where the shadows lay heaviest on the 
water, and where the waters were most translucent 
and reflected best the overhanging trees, where 
the crow’s nest clung to the topmost limb of an 
ancient tree, where pleasant paths led down to 
the water from adjacent grounds, not one of these 
things but he remembered. He was not one of 
117 


118 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


those weak-minded men who wonder most at things 
new, and digest worst things that are old; who 
long only for change and variety, and feel not the 
endearing and binding power of custom. On the 
contrary he took root where he lived, and loved 
the old familiar places best of all. In all his travels 
his heart had been at home on the Hudson, and- 
Illyrian woodlands had not seemed as fair as many 
a slope along her shaded banks. To-day his mood 
was a very happy one. He was enjoying getting 
out into society a little more, he thought, and re- 
newing his acquaintance with the old friends. He 
would like to stop off and see Aubrey for an hour 
or two, but concluded to go on, getting a little im- 
patient as he neared his destination. He won- 
dered if Aubrey was not over at Klosterheim often, 
being so near. An hour or two of him would do very 
well — but the thought that artist’s talk might grow 
wearisome very soon, if one had to listen to it. Au- 
brey was too much of a cynic too, tor daily use. 
The cant of cynicism is as offensive as the cant of 
dogmatism, and neither would be pleasant for daily 
food. Armstrong was more agreeable, for he did not 
talk much, but when he did talk he always said some 
thing you wanted to hear, and said it in an original 
way. Miss Armstrong was like her father. You 
could not predict exactly what she would sa}^ 


A SEPTEMBER DAY 


119 


under given circumstances, as you could of the 
average young lady. She had ideas of her own, 
and they were different from the ideas of men. 
She was possibly a little too much in earnest, but 
she was young, and any crudeness of thought would 
mellow down after a time, when she would be- 
come a very agreeable woman, a fascinating one, 
to a man who was not afraid of a woman with a 
mind. As for himself no woman without a mind 
could interest him for an hour. He would rather 
play with a wax doll than entertain one of them. 
While these thoughts were passing dreamily 
through his mind his destination was reached, and 
he walked up the long avenue to Klosterheim. He 
was rather annoyed to find Aubrey there, but 
pleased that his own seat was next Miss Arm- 
strong at table, while Aubrey sat next the hostess. 
Lizelle and Richard Savage were opposite him. 
The change in the position of Lizelle in the family 
which Victoria had hinted at when last he was 
here, had been made. She was no longer a ser- 
vant, but a member of the family, an adopted 
daughter in spirit, if not in form. Richard Sav- 
age found a portion of his work in giving her daily 
instruction in those branches of study which Mr. 
Armstrong thought adapted to her mind. 

“We are not going to make a learned lady of 


120 


FENCING IVITH SHy^DOlVS 


Lizelle,’’ he had remarked to Richard. “We are so 
fond of her just as she is that we don’t want to 
change her much. We simply want to give her a 
good English education, such as she will need for 
practical life. There is nothing of the blue stock- 
ing about Lizelle, and she is not going to be forced 
to bother her little head about a quantity of things 
in which she has no interest. She shall learn just 
what pleases her and nothing else.” 

So she studied a little every day, very conscien- 
tiously and laboriously, but was always glad when 
lessons were over and she could go back to Mrs. 
Armstrong, and take up the various occupations 
which attendance upon her involved. She was 
never so happy as when working for or with, Mrs. 
Armstrong. She could not bear to be idle, and 
loved to do everything in her power for the plea- 
sure or convenience of any member of the family. 
So she led a busy life, and was happy in the 
pleasure she gave. Her affection for all was al- 
ready passionate in its intensity. 

Richard Savage was very shy and awkward in 
his new position in life, but he was quick-witted, 
and made less grave mistakes than most men would 
have done. He talked little and observed much, 
and was after a few weeks quite at home in his 
new surroundings. 


A SEPTEMBER DAY 


121 


“I am sorry we have only supper to offer you, 
Webster,” said Mr. Armstrong as they sat down, 
“but we dine early here. People who get up in 
the morning soon learn that bit of domestic 
economy.” 

“That is the way I should prefer my meals if I 
lived in the country. I used to wonder in Eng- 
land why nobody took kindly to the idea.” 

“Oh the English stick by old customs to the last 
gasp. They would sooner disestablish the church 
than the dinner. But their dinners are dreadful 
nevertheless. I don’t think I ever experienced 
anywhere a weariness quite equal to that of one of 
their, long stupid dinner parties.” 

“My experience was similar. I found them ex- 
ceedingly dull. There were one or two houses 
where you met really pleasant people; and then 
it was much easier,” said Mr. Webster. 

“But it is a relic of barbarism,” said Aubrey, 
“to sit for hours at the dinner table, even with the 
best of company. With the usual party, it is 
simply martyrdom. I shall never forget some of 
my doleful experiences in that line. Yet you hear 
some good talk there.” 

“But you would hear better, with the same com- 
pany, anywhere else. Dining is a business by 
tself, if a man is hungry, as he is apt to be, for a 


122 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


late dinner, and conversation of any moment is not 
much enjoyed,” said Mr. Armstrong. 

“There was usually some one at table,” said 
Aubrey, “whom I could have talked with. But 
that person was by some dread fiat of fate always 
at an illimitable distance, while the man or the 
woman next to me was invariably deaf and dumb, 
or had mislaid his brains just before starting out.” 

“It is interesting work to bawl out some com- 
monplace remark to one of these unfortunates, 
have to repeat it three times, to the whole con- 
course of souls, and then have the man send for 
his trumpet that he may hear you,” said Mr. 
Webster laughing; “most of us have tried that 
once, I presume.” 

“Happy the man who has tried it only once,” 
said Aubrey. “When I was in society, I was sent 
down with a regular succession of deaf women. 
The malignity of fate has never been better ex- 
emplified than by that experience. Nothing short 
of a conspiracy among the gods could ever have 
brought it about. The only relief I ever got, was 
being occasionally requested to take down some 
corrugated dame, the torrent of whose eloquence 
never ceased to flow, but which beat with ‘damna- 
ble iteration’ on my devoted head for three mortal 
hours.” 


A SEPTEMBER DAY 


123 


“You were doubtless benefited by the oration,” 
said Victoria, “and could bear the discomfort for 
the sake of the instruction.” 

“Well, hardly. Even Macaulay’s ‘rapt oration 
flowing free’ was said to be rather fatiguing, but 
that of an ordinary dame of quality had some ele- 
ments of boredom about it which penetrated to 
the very marrow. It exhausted the vital forces 
almost to the point of dissolution. Being talked to 
death has been a literal fear and horror with me 
ever since those days.” 

“I will take warning,” said Victoria, “and never 
excite such poignant dread if I can help it. St. 
Paul should have extended his prohibition, and 
said let the women keep silence at the dinners, 
also.” 

“On the whole that would have been a rather 
good idea for St. Paul, but he should certainly 
have made some exceptions. Miss Armstrong.” 

Tea over, they sought the air, for the evening 
was warm. Mr. Webster had a short chat with 
Richard Savage, who then left the party for a soli- 
tary walk by theTiver. Mr. Armstrong took Au- 
brey off to the library to see some new drawings 
for his book, and Mr. Webster was left to Victo- 
ria’s care. 

“I have thought of our evening stroll so many 


124 


FENCING IVITH SH^DOIVS 


times, Miss Armstrong. Do you think it wise to 
repeat a success, and try if another could be as 
pleasant.?’’ he remarked as they stood together 
on the wide balcony. 

‘‘I shall enjoy going if you wish,” she answered. 
“I am never weary of showing off the beauties of 
Klosterheim to our friends.” 

She brought a shawl and a fleecy scarf for her 
head, and they started gaily down the walk. 

When the moon was flooding the river with sil- 
ver they returned along its margin, slowly and 
stood awhile in the shadows on the rustic bridge, 
watching the rippling river below flecked with the 
golden moonlight. They met Mr. Armstrong and 
Aubrey just as they reached the house, starting 
for the homeward walk, for Mr. Armstrong always 
escorted Aubrey home. “Come along, Webster, 
and help see Aubrey home. If you don’t like so 
long a walk we’ll leave him midway, but this 
moonlight is so seductive I think we shall go on.” 

“And you,” said Mr. Webster in a low tone to 
Victoria, “may I not rather stay with you.?” 

“Oh I must go in at once. I am rather chilly 
already. You would enjoy going with father, I 
am sure. I will say good-night.” 

She gave him her hand, smiled, and disappeared. 
She went at once to her own room, and sat long 


A SEPTEMBER DAY 


125 


by the window looking out on the shadowy grounds. 

Mr. Webster joined the others at the bridge, 
and the three walked on in earnest talk. The 
two men had been speaking of Lizelle, and Mr. 
Aubrey was saying as Webster came up: 

“But I don’t quite see, Armstrong, how you dare 
get so attached to the girl, and propose to make 
her one of the family.?” 

“And why not, pray.?” answered Mr. Armstrong 
rather brusquely. 

“Because you know nothing much of her birth 
or antecedents. She is a charming girl, we can all 
see that plainly enough, sweet and gentle, and 
remarkably pretty, but you take a good many 
chances of bad blood, you must know, picking a 
girl up that way.” 

“Oh! I shall not worry much about that,” 
answered Armstrong, “the girl is well born, I know 
by her looks. By that I mean she is not of vicious 
stock, and that is all I care for. She had a good 
mother, my wife says. She knows by what the 
girl tells her of her bringing up.” 

“But she may be tainted from ancestors farther 
back. The one thing of which I am certain in 
this world is that blood will tell.” 

“I agree with you to a certain extent. But there 
is such a thing as free will also.” Saying this he 
abruptly changed the subject. 


126 


FENCING IVITH SHADOJVS 


“This is the half-way point, Webster, and I 
think we would better turn back,’^ said Mr. Arm- 
strong. “You are not used to these long walks 
as Aubrey and I are.^’ They said good-night and 
turned back, while Aubrey pursued his solitary 
way. “It was very noble of Armstrong to say that 
of Lizelle,’’ he thought. “Why should he not 
shelter and protect her all the more if she is badly 
born ? I would do it myself, by heaven, though 
I am such a crank upon heredity, But I could 
swear she came of good blood, almost as certainly 
as he. She is an angel in looks anyway, and I 
believe her heart is as white as her hand, and 
that is perfect.’^ 


CHAPTER XIII 


TUTOR AND TAUGHT 

Lizelle and Richard Savage, although very shy 
of each other at first, gradually became friends. 
Constrained as he was in the society of women, 
Richard still enjoyed it very much, and there was 
no one in the household in whom he took so much 
pleasure as in Mrs. Armstrong. She knew how 
to put him at his ease, and she was always inter- 
ested in what he had to tell her of his life, and in 
the knowledge he was able to give her of how a part 
of the world of which she knew nothing, lived. 
Her sympathies were strong, and went freely forth 
to the miners and their families, in their hard 
struggle with adverse fate. Of his experience in 
New York he was less willing to talk. He could 
not bring himself to speak to a lady of the things 
he had discussed so freely with Mr. Webster. An 
innate delicacy moved him to refrain, and she 
could hardly understand his unconcealed horror - 
of the city, from what he was able to tell her of his 
life there. With Lizelle he was still more re- 
127 


128 


FENCING IVITH SHADOJVS 


ticent, though they talked freely together of their 
hatred of New York, and their love of country life. 
One morning when Lizelle came to him in the 
library for her lessons she brought a volume of 
Hood’s poems in her hand, and her eyes were full 
of tears as she said: “Oh, did you ever read ‘The 
Song of the Shirt It so chanced that Richard 
had never seen it, and the two read it together, 
with deep emotion. 

“How do you suppose he knew about my old life 
so well. I could not have told it half so well my- 
self.’^ 

“Oh, Tom Hood was a poet and he had what is 
called the sympathetic imagination. Poets know 
a great deal from intuition which the rest of us 
have to learn from experience and observation,” 
he said absently, looking through the volume. His 
eyes at last fell on the “Bridge of Sighs” and he 
read as one entranced. He now echoed in his own 
heart Lizelle’s question: “How could he have 
known His thoughts went back as they had 
done so many times to the young and beautiful 
girl he had rescued, and he asked himself once 
more as he was constantly doing, if he had done 
well. He wondered with the deepest solicitude 
what had become of her, and inwardly determined 
that when he went back to New York, he would 


TUTOR AND TAUGHT 


129 




leave no stone unturned to find her, and to help 
her if possible. 

“And do you like these poems, Lizelle.^’^ he said 
seating himself at the table for the lessons. 

“Only that one,’’ she answered, “but I have not 
read many. The funny ones I cannot read, they 
seem to me so forced and unnatural.” 

“Did you read the ‘Bridge of Sighs.?’” 

“No, I did not notice that.” 

“Read that some time. It is as real to me as 
the other was to you I have seen it.” 

She took up her book, and no more was said, 
but Richard’s thoughts were very far away from 
the morning’s work, and she saw it. When they 
had finished the lessons she did not try to conceal 
her delight. 

“Now I can go back to help Mrs. Barry with 
the cream,” she said. “I love to cook, and we 
made the handsomest dish of Charlotte Russe just 
before I had to come. Oh, it was a beauty, and 
I whipped the cream myself. And now I am go- 
ing to learn a lot of other things. I don’t care if 
I never know where Madagascar is. I can’t re- 
member, but as I never expect to go to Madagas- 
car what does it matter.? Geography is hateful 
anyway.” 

“Well, we’ll cut it down as much as we dare, 

p 


130 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


but a lady must know something about where 
places, are or she’ll make herself ridiculous some 
time when she wants to appear well.” 

“Oh j^es, I know it, and what would Mr. Web- 
ster or Mr. Aubrey think if I didn’t know where 
Madagascar was when they asked me.^ Tell me 
once more, Mr. Savage, and I’ll be sure to re- 
member.” And she laughed a merry little laugh 
and made a funny little grimace. 

“And you must get your nominative case strait- 
ened out too, Lizelle, for you’re to be a lady you 
know now, and a lady never loses her nominative 
case,” said Richard smiling at her as she hung on 
to the door handle and hesitated to go. 

“Yes and I must learn such a lot of new words. 
You see I can’t understand half of what Mr. Au- 
brey says, because I don’t know the words he uses, 
any more than if they were Choctaw — whatever 
that is, I’m sure I don’t know. You always know, 
don’t you, Mr. Savage.!^” 

“Not always. But better than you do, I pre- 
sume, for you see I have read them in books, and 
I study the dictionary too, Lizelle.” 

“Oh, yes, that is another of the dreadful things 
I’ve got to study. Victoria tells me every day to 
look it up in the dictionary, and I just hate the 
cjigtionary wprgt of ^11, Poji’t you tell anybody, 


TUTOR AhlD^ TAUGHT 


131 


Mr. Savage, but if it wasn’t for these dreadful 
lessons I should be too happy to live, here at Klos- 
terheim. But I am bound to learn them all the 
same, because I must, to please the dear, dear 
family. But I wish you could get your learning 
ready made somewhere. I know dear Papa Arm- 
strong would get it for me if he could. But oh, 
the almond cream — ” and she ran away with a 
gay little wave of the hand. 

“The dear child,’’ sighed Richard to himself, 
“Pm glad she isn’t worried with all the thoughts 
which torment me and prevent my enjoying this 
beautiful life as I ought. Mr. Armstrong is right 
too, not to have her made unhappy with too much 
study. He is afraid she will lose her high spirits 
he says, and that they are worth more than all 
book learning. Lizelle would never be a scholar 
anyway, and I hate to bother her with the matter 
at all. But as Mr. Armstrong says, she must be 
made able to pass with the crowd. She is not 
duir either, but bright. But her brightness does 
not run to study.” 

Just then Mr. Armstrong entered and Richard 
told him what he had been thinking. “You are 
quite right. My wife and Victoria will teach 
Lizelle what is becoming to a lady, far better than 
any books could do it. Her own beauty and grace 


132 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


will do the rest for her. People are not happier 
for thinking too much in this world. You yourself 
would gain in comfort if you would not try so hard 
to penetrate into the mysteries of the universe, my 
dear fellow. Take the world a little easier, man.’’ 

“That is easily said, sir. But I am not a girl, 
like Lizelle, to be sheltered and saved from any- 
thing distressing. Tve got a man’s work to do 
in the world, and I’ve got to fit myself to do it. 
Just now this great labor problem is absorbing 
my whole soul. I don’t want to go wrong. I 
want to know the truth. But in the conflict of 
opinion, even educated opinion, I don’t see the 
way. Men do not agree upon the point even of 
there being a labor problem. They only agree as 
to present conditions being hard on the people.” 

“But it is the problem of the day nevertheless, 
and we in this country must soon grapple with it. 
If I were young like you I think I should enter 
actively into its discussion. But I have grown too 
idle and easy-going for that. When I get worried 
over the affairs of my fellowmen I take to my 
beetles. You will do well to follow my example 
and get a hobby. But just now help me to follow 
out mine.” He brought out his papers and they 
went to work. 

The association with Mr. Armstrong was very 


TUTOR AND TAUGHT 


133 


stimulating to Richard, and very useful. Self- 
educated as he was, his thoughts and opinions had 
never been put to the test of criticism, and now 
for the first time he was obliged to think carefully 
and to express himself judiciously. The discipline 
was both profitable and pleasing. Everything con- 
nected with this new life was of absorbing interest 
to him. He was living much in these days. His 
heart was expanding like a flower in the sunshine. 
He was happier than he thought it right to be. 
When exalted with the brightness of the days at 
Klosterheim, he tried hard to “feel the common 
chord again, to keep his sympathies active, and to 
set his ’heart unalterably to the purpose he had 
formed of devoting his life to the people, the mel- 
ancholy, hopeless, despairing people, he had seen 
down below in the dark and dismal city. He 
thought of them constantly, two hundred and 
seventy thousand people on one square mile of 
ground, piled on top of each other seven, ten, 
stories high, crowded into dark, damp, filthy 
rooms festering with disease, and eaten up by vice, 
where they quarreled, fought, pilfered, caroused, 
sickened and died. What could one man do to 
change the hideous whole This was the question 
that haunted him. How to put a little of the joy 
of true living into lives so wretched and so de- 


134 


FENCING IVITH SM^DOIVS 


based? How he longed to make it possible that 
the young should have some of the pure pleasures 
of youth. He dreamed of enticing these loafers, 
so young, and so restless, so naturally anxious for 
a little mirth and melody, out of the saloons and 
the streets, where they now spent their leisure, 
into boat clubs, into base-ball nines, into the 
gymnasium and the swimming bath. He dreamed 
of great singing societies such as the Welsh and 
Germans have, where voices could be trained and 
musicians developed, of bands of wind and of 
stringed instruments, in which they should prac- 
tice, of clean, fresh, dancing halls under the patron- 
age of pure women where young men and maidens 
might meet in natural intercourse which would 
both benefit and please. He thought of classes 
for study, of free readings and free concerts, of all 
the things which might be done,* and should be 
done, to raise and cheer these lives, and then he 
thought of himself — penniless, powerless, — with a 
groan. Then he would think deeper, and ques- 
tion what great good could come of these slight 
ameliorations and amendments, even if he could 
accomplish them, with all the causes of the pres- 
ent state of things untouched, even unknown. 
Some little individual good might be done by per- 
sonal labor with a few, but where was the radical 


TUTOR AND TAUGHT 


135 


remedy which should elevate the mass? Of one 
thing only he felt certain, that nothing effectual 
could be done with public feeling as indifferent as 
now to the whole question. Could his be the 
voice, one of the voices, which should startle the 
world into thought, which should force the in- 
different to see, and to attempt some reformation? 
Upon all this he sat brooding in the library after 
Mr. Armstrong had left him. He knew he had the 
sympathy of this family, and could have the active 
co-operation of Victoria, at least, and he blessed 
them in his thought. He looked up at a portrait 
of her which hung before him, and studied the 
fair, thoughtful face. The artist had idealized it a 
little and it was even more beautiful than the origi- 
nal. The dress was filmy and soft and looked 
like a cloud flung about her, the serene eyes were 
half-raised, and the whole look was rapt and spirit- 
ual. It seemed to Richard like the embodiment 
of ideal womanhood. This was the stature to 
which the world of women should at last grow. 
This was the fulfilment of the worlds’ dream of 
fair women, of fair and wise, and pure women, as 
distinguished from the women of the ages that 
were past. Long he sat 

“As one that museth where broad sunshine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro’ the door 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor.” 


iof) 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


There was the sound without of the wind in the 
trees, tearing and tossing the now withered leaves, 
at a little distance flowed the river, and the music 
of it^ flowing come on the wind, he heard it all as 
in a dream. At last he rose and went slowly to- 
ward the picture on the wall. He raised his hand 
and touched it, softly, reverently, as one would 
touch the image of a saint, then went his way. 


CHAPTER XIV 


AN AUTUMN VISIT 

It was late October at Klosterheim. The blue 
mists of that enchanting season hung around the 
horizon, and rested upon the tops of the far away 
hills. Some remnants of the late magnificence 
clung to the woods. Amid the red brown of the 
oak woodlands stood here and there a sentinel 
tree with his robes of state still upon him, his toga 
' of scarlet or gold, or his trailing garments of vari- 
gated splendor. But the first pomp of autumn 
had fled, the hedges no longer blazed with golden 
rod and sumach, the aster had furled her purple 
pennon and the crimson of the ivy had turned to 
dun. But within the gray green covert of the 
wood, inscrutable, apart, the birch kept up her 
silver smile, and the white poplar starred the twi- 
light of the pines. There was still warmth in the 
air, and the birds had not yet deserted the river 
banks. Victoria and Lizelle still haunted the 
woods. There were always new wonders there 
and, Lizelle’s ecstasies of admiration were never 
137 


188 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


exhausted. This morning she was returning, 
laden as usual, with mottled leaves and berries, 
and joyous in her anticipation of the evening, for 
there was to be company, and Lizelle was never 
so happy as when there were guests in the house. 
Whoever else came, Mr. Aubrey was sure to be of 
the party, for Mr. Armstrong thought no company 
complete without his friend, and Lizelle was get- 
ting to be much of that mind also. 

“I am glad Mr. Webster is coming to-night,” 
she said, clapping her hands in her glee and fairly 
dancing along the road. 

“Is that why you are in such spirits this morn- 
ing.? I will tell him,” said Victoria, “he will be 
greatly flattered.” 

“No, that’s not the reason at all. I’m mortally 
afraid of him as you know. He’s altogether too 
stately for my comfort. But Mr. Aubrey will 
come too, for Papa Armstrong will be sure to ask 
him, and then we shall have some fun.” 

“So you find Mr. Aubrey amusing, do you.?” 
said Victoria smiling. “I thought you were com- 
plaining the other day that you could not under- 
stand half that he said.” 

“Well, I can’t, but that does not make any differ- 
ence. I like him and I guess at a good deal that 
he means. Besides he never cares whether I un- 


.4N AUTUMN VISIT 


1B9 


derstand or not, is more amused if I don’t, in fact.” 

“You must study a little harder and you will 
soon be able to enjoy his conversation as well as 
the rest of us. But I confess I am not quite so 
fond of him as the rest of you. He does not seem 
to me to be earnest enough. He is a trifler.” 

“Oh, if you want earnestness you can fall back 
on Mr. Savage. He’s too deadly earnest for any- 
thing. I should like him better if there was a 
little, tiny dash of nonsense about him.” 

“Well, his life has been enough to make him 
earnest. I quite admire him for it. He has no 
time to waste on such froth and foam as .all the 
rest of us indulge in.” 

“Mr. Webster is much nicer, even if he is stately, 
I think. But perhaps if I had to say my lessons 
to him I should find out how serious he could be. 
But I don’t believe he’d be as frightfully con- 
scientious as Mr. Savage anyway. It’s simply 
appalling to me to see how he exacts the uttermost 
farthing of time from me. Sometimes I tease him 
to let me off a few lines of the copybook, but he is 
as grim as a dragon, and says I have no time to 
spare. I don’t believe Mr. Webster would be 
quite so hard-hearted, do you.^” 

“I have no means of judging of that. I donlt 
know Mr. Webster very well myself.” 


140 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


‘‘Well you seem in a fair way to get acquainted,'^ 
said Lizelle archly, “he comes up often enough. 
And he doesn’t devote himself to the family to 
any great extent.’’ 

Victoria colored a little as she answered: “He 
is one of father’s old friends, Lizelle, and he used 
to come to see father when I was away, I sup- 
pose, just the same as now.” 

“There you are mistaken, for Mamma Armstrong 
said the other day that they almost lost sight of 
him' for some years, and she was glad to have him 
visit here again.” 

“Well, we are all glad to see him, of course, little 
chatterbox, and if you take pains to be agreeable, 
perhaps you will get acquainted with him yourself. 
He is not so unapproachable, though he is digni- 
fied,” and then she changed the subject. 

They did not entertain much company at Klos- 
terheim and it was not strange that both girls were 
a little excited at the prospect of having the two 
gentlemen over the Sabbath, for Mr. Webster had 
invited himself for that time, and Mr. Armstrong 
had added Mr. Aubrey to the company. Victoria’s 
restlessness was quite unusual, and could not fail 
to attract Lizelle’s attention as the day went on, 
and set her busy little brain to weaving romances 
in true girl fashion. The usual dreams of girlhood 


AN AUTUMN KISIT 


141 


had been long delayed in her case. The stern re- 
pression of her life had kept even a bud of romance 
from forming, and now the virgin soil was ready 
to burst into tropical bloom at a breath of admi- 
ration, or a show of friendly interest. The family 
regarded her as a child, and as being in the most 
sheltered and safest of refuges. But the time was 
near when she must meet her fate. Nature would 
not be thwarted much longer. All this day she 
was in a happy fever, but knew not the meaning of 
her own unrest. 

But her cheeks had a brighter tinge of pink, and 
her eyes a softer glow than usual when she ran 
forward to meet the guests as they came up the 
walk, leaving Victoria standing upon the porch in 
more decorous style. 

‘‘How late you are, we’ve been waiting ever and 
ever so long,” she said to Mr. Aubrey, placing 
her hand in his, and giving a shy nod to Mr. Web- 
ster. “We don’t have company very often, and 
when we know you are coming we’re as impatient 
as children.” 

“To have us taste your cookery I suppose, mad- 
emoiselle,” said Aubrey laughing, “the last time I 
was here it was a wonderful Charlotte Russe, 
Webster didn’t have any of that, but it was fine. 
What is it to night, little pastry cook.^^” 


142 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


Mr. Webster had stepped forward to speak to 
Victoria, so she chattered to him quite at her ease 
until his hat and coat had been laid aside, and 
they were ready to seek Mrs. Armstrong in the 
drawing-room. 

“This child says you’re very glad to see com- 
pany up here, Mrs. Armstrong. Do you get a 
little lonely sometimes.*^” 

“Not I. I don’t know what it means to be 
lonely at Klosterheim. I am too busy for that. 
But the young poeple maybe a little moped some- 
times I dare say. And we are all very glad to 
see our friends.’^ 

“No indeed, mamma, we are not lonely in the 
least. I didn’t mean even to suggest such a thing. 
I only meant that like children who know they are 
to have a treat, we want it to begin,” said Lizelle 
laughing. 

“What nonsense is Lizelle talking,” said Vic- 
toria with cheeks burning, as she took Mr. Web- 
ster’s proffered hand. “She is very fond of Mr. 
Aubrey and could hardly wait his arrival. So she 
dragged me forth also, to meet him half way.” 

“It was very kind of her,” said Mr. Webster. 
“I shall always bring Aubrey along hereafter, to 
ensure a welcome.” 

“It is quite unnecessary as far as the rest of us 


AN AUTUMN FISIT 


143 


are concerned, Mr. Webster, I assure you, but 
with Lizelle it might perhaps help along.” 

“Aubrey is- such a near neighbor, no doubt you 
see him often.” 

“Of late, yes. But mother says he scarcely 
ever came until this fall. Father used to make 
all the visits ” 

“You must feel flattered to draw out two such 
recluses as Aubrey and I. I never had the time 
to come before. Now I am quite as busy, but I 
seem to get the time. No doubt it is so with 
Aubrey.” He smiled. She colored a little, and 
they passed on into the drawing-room. The con- 
versation was animated, Lizelle who was learning 
to be at her ease, and to talk well, taking her 
modest part with a grace which all admired. She 
wore a new dress this evening, the first one she 
had had made since she was really taken into the 
family. It was a soft, blue-gray wool, open at the 
throat and draped fancifully about the waist. She 
was very much pleased with it, and Mr. Aubrey 
was not long in detecting her pleasure, so he be- 
gan to quiz her in his peculiar way about it. 

“You have another young lady here to-night 
I perceive, Mrs. Armstrong. Where has the little 
miss vanished to, and what has wrought the spell, 
looking keenly and critically at Li^^lle. 


144 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


‘‘Oh I have only got a new dress, Mr. Aubrey. 
Does it make me look really grown-up I am 
glad if it does, for I’m tired of having everybody 
treat m.e like a child. And I am nineteen to- 
morrow.” 

“And we have been asked to celebrate your birth- 
day, or we have volunteered, I really forget which. 
Anyway accept our congratulations and our ap- 
preciation of the dress; it is a great success. But 
don’t be in a hurry to get on. Miss Lizelle. You 
will have plenty of time to be old in. And you 
will never be nineteen again.” 

He sighed a little and looked out of the window 
and far away for some moments. 

“Oh I’m only in a hurry to get on a little bit of 
a way,” said Lizelle. “I wouldn’t be old for any- 
thing. I only want to get old enough to give up 
lessons I think,” and she laughed, “some lessons 
which I so much despise. But I want to learn to 
draw, and Papa Armstrong says perhaps I may, 
after a while.” 

“I should think they would put you to the piano 
about this time, and have you pass the best years 
of your life trying to comprehend sharps and flats, 
and making the air hideous with your discords.” 

“No, we do not think Lizelle has any taste for 
that,” said Mrs. Armstrong. 


AUTUMN VISIT 


145 


‘^So much more reason why you should train her 
that way, my dear madam. If only the people 
who have a taste for music were put to a musical ^ 
training, a long-suffering world would be immeasur- 
ably relieved. Lizelle has more talent than the 
most, for she can sing a tune and the majority of 
musical prodigies can’t keep on the key to save 
their valuable lives.” 

“But I don’t like the piano,” said Lizelle, “any 
better than I do the dictionary, and my devotion 
to that is not very deep.” 

“And do you really want to draw.^ If you do 
I’ll teach you. That won’t do you any harm 
If you’ll promise not to want to paint. I’ll teach 
you to draw, but I would not be guilty of adding 
another amateur painter to the innumerable cara- 
van.” 

“Oh I suppose I should want to paint too, after 
I could draw. I want to copy my favorite flowers, 
and I am sure I should want to color them. 
Wouldn’t you let me even do that.^” 

“Perhaps we would let you do them in water 
colors, and keep them in a portfolio. But you 
would have to promise solemnly not to hang them 
on the walls.” 

“But I just want them for that, to pin them up 
all around my room.” 

lO 

0 


14J 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


“You are like all the tribe. I don’t see why 
you could not have been different/^ and he laughed 
a merry laugh. “You had much better study bee- 
tles with Mr. Armstrong. A good, strong, healthy 
insect is worthy of close attention, even if you 
don’t know all about his ancestry as Armstrong 
does; but a flower piece by the average young lady 
is only worthy of obliteration — cremation — extin- 
guishment — annihilation — help me to a stronger 
word if you can, Webster.’^ 

“I don’t think you need any reinforcement. 
And my vocabulary can’t be compared to yours 
anyway. And I’m an advocate of Miss Lizelle’s 
learning to paint, spite of your high art notions. 
She would get a good deal of pleasure out of it, 
and that is the chief thing. The question whether 
or not it would be art is of no consequence.” 

“And thou too, Brutus.^ Come and show me the 
dogs, Lizelle, and the wonderful cats too. They 
are the most sensible of companions after all.” 

“Let us follow,” said Mr. Webster to Victoria. 
“I would like to pay my respects to the mighty 
Ajax once more. And I wonder if Helen has for- 
gotten me. She was quite friendly the last time I 
was here.” 

Mr. Aubrey and Lizelle had a romp with the 
dogs, and finally returned to the house each bear- 


AN AUTUMN VISIT 


147 


ing a cat, Mr. Aubrey a big mottled gray and yel- 
low Angora, with long hair parted on her back, 
and with bushy whiskers; and Lizelle a white 
one equally as large and sleek. Victoria and Mr. 
Webster did not return until supper was served, 
and were engrossed in a conversation of their own 
during that meal. Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Aubrey 
and Richard Savage, spent the time in the discus- 
sion of books. 

^‘Do you know I am coming to the city for the 
winter, Mr. Webster said Victoria. 

^‘No indeed. When did you decide to do that.?’^ 
have been thinking about it ever since the 
day I went into the Fourth Ward looking for Mrs. 
Barry. But I have had a hard time with myself, 
and have not been able to make up my mind until 
now that it is right for me to go. It is so pleasant 
here at home, that I can hardly tear myself away. 
But mamma has Lizelle now. If it were not for 
that I should not feel that I could leave her.’’ 

^‘And what are you to do in town, if I may 
know.^” 

“Well, I can scarcely tell you as yet. Four of 
my school-mates have taken a house in the lower 
part of the city near where I found Lizelle, and 
they will start a Cottage Settlement there. I have 
thought of joining them. That is, I shall live with 


148 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


them, but I shall have a work of my own, differ- 
ent from theirs, I think. 

“You will find that a hard life. You are too 
young for it, I think. Can you not postpone your 
trial for awhile?” 

“No, I feel that it is my duty to study the life 
which women and girls lead in that quarter,* with 
the idea of finding out what is most needed to help 
them. I am young but that is only another rea- 
son for going. I have no cares or duties now 
which prevent me from interesting myself in the 
fate of my fellows. Such women as mamma can- 
not do these things. They have their homes to 
care for, and they have not the strength.” 

“Are you sure that you have the strength? You 
have not been much tested, I fancy.” 

“No, but I am in royal health. It would really 
be wicked for me to waste the next few years. I 
feel like rushing into the hardest work I can find.” 

“Your enthusiasm will keep you up for awhile, 
but you will find contact with that sort of life very 
exhausting.” 

“Doubtless, and the worst of it is I don’t know 
what I want to do. My friends have a well- 
defined idea of their work. They will live among 
the people, and be friends and neighbors to them, 
striving to create a new atmosphere about them. 


AN AUTUMN VISIT 


149 


But that will not satisfy me. I don’t feel any 
vocation for personal work among the poor. I 
could not spend my life in teaching them, in nurs- 
ing them when sick, or in relieving their miseries 
in detail. I am not saint enough for that, as many 
women are But I feel that there is even a larger 
and perhaps more pressing work than this, for 
somebody to do. I am going down there to live, 
to find out what it is. My strongest desire at pres- 
net is not to relieve their wants but to redress 
their wrongs.’^ 

“You will find a large field there. It was my 
own chosen work for a time. I helped organize 
a Woman’s Protective Union, and was its legal 
adviser for some time. I never enjoyed any work 
so well. But it was a work others could do as 
well as I, and I gave it up after awhile. It is very 
exciting, and I was born for a fighter.’’ 

“I have thought of working with them. It is in 
my line I think as well as yours.” 

She smiled, and he answered: “I should never 
have suspected you of being in the least belligerent.” 

“But I am. When Lizelle told me how O’Sleary 
had cheated her out of her wages I felt so angry 
that I could hardly resist the temptation to prose- 
cute him at once. And I wish now that I had. 
My indignation has not cooled at all.” 


150 


FENCING IVITH SH A DOIVS 


“You would really enjoy the redressing of wrongs 
I am sure. But the work in detail is very distaste- 
ful, and often very discouraging. I don’t know 
how a lady would stand it. It is hard enough on 
a man. Wouldn’t you feel satisfied to commis- 
sion me.^ I would be able to do much more than 
you could, and I dislike much to see you attempt 
it.^' 

“I may call upon you for help. But I must do 
something myself. I feel as if I was shirking my 
duty, sitting here at home in pleasant idleness 
when there is so much to be done.” 

“You will have to try it before you will be satis- 
fied,! suppose,” he said smiling, “but I wish you 
could feel contented to wait until you are older. 
It will take the brightness out of your youth, I fear. ” 

“I have not a right to so much brightness. There 
is not enough to go around if I take more than 
my share.” 

“You have at least transplanted one flower that 
is enjoying its new climate,” glancing at Lizelle. 

“Is it not beautiful.^ Perhaps that is what has 
most encouraged me to work for others. I should 
so love to transplant others, and perhaps I may 
be able to do so. There are hundreds of homes 
not far from New York, where these same suffer- 
ing young things are needed, not as mere workers, 


Ah! AUTUMN yiSIT 


151 


but as brightness for sombre houses. Th(j element 
of youth should be in every home, and tnere are 
so many childless couples among us.’^ 

“But you could hardly hope to find another 
Lizelle. She is purely exceptional I think, com- 
ing from that quarter.’’ 

“You know better than I, no doubt, but I fancy 
I may find others, worthy of my effort' though I 
could never feel toward any of them quite as I do 
toward Lizelle. She is the embodiment of grati- 
tude and affection.” 

“It is very beautiful to have led such an one out 
into the light.” 

“It makes me very happy. I rejoice in it all day 
long I think. When I have helped a few more to 
escape, I may be satisfied to retire from the field, 
and take up my life of selfish good again. But I 
will at least set a few upon higher ground.” 

“When you have discovered another like Lizelle, 
I will present her to my mother. I have always 
wished her to have a daughter, at least by adop- 
tion. It would do her infinite good I am sure.” 

“I shall look until I find just the one you would 
desire; I shall be sure to find her.” 

The next day passed like a brief dream.* There 
was that gathered beneath this roof which effaces 
time, which glorifies a day, which makes the pomp 


152 


FENCING IVITH SM^DOH^S 


of emperors insignificant. That which bathes in 
purple splendor the comqjon place and the every 
day, and casts a mystic spell over all the ordinary 
events of our life. It was the dawning of that 
love 

•‘long known to thee 

By flying hair, and fluttering hem— the beat 
Following her daily of thy heart and feet, 

How passionately and irretrievably, 

In what fond flight, how many ways and days ” 

The old enchantment which began in the dim 
morning-red of time, and which will outlast the 
world. 


CHAPTER XV 


VIOLET LEE 

No one has yet sung the true song of the street. 
Stand on any corner of Broadway and you shall hear 
it, but to write it, is far other. The clang of its 
endless chain, the pang of its ceaseless pain, its ryth- 
mic flow and its beat, elude you. Its turbulent 
roar, its noise like the sea, pounding unceasingly, 
seems to deaden your senses for a time. You look 
on its traffic and trade, you hear the roar of its 
wheels, heavy and heartless and hoarse, grinding 
under their weight some things immaterial, like 
souls, as well as all material things; you look on 
its black monstrous trains loaded down with human 
lives; on the ceaseless throngs tramping by night 
and day; the tide of life ever flowing, so sullen and 
swift, crowds going and coming on errands that 
bless or ban; but you have not yet seen the street. 
You must learn to know the feet of those who 
tread tirelessly the length of this peopled way, on 
errands of darkness and dread, birds of prey who 
hover about the innocent until the moment of 
153 


154 


FENCING iVITH SHADOIVS 


fatal weakness, so surely foreknown, comes, and 
who then lure to destruction as to a feast; as well 
as those other feet of men and women which are 
beautiful upon the mountains of rescue and of de- 
liverance. Even knowing all these, you will not 
fully know the street. He who could know all life, 
all death, all gain, all loss, success, defeat, all 
action and all repose, all language, and all thought, 
he it might be could sing this great song of the 
street, but no other. Away down among the branch- 
ing streets of the lower part of the city, was the 
well-known one, on which the tenement was situ- 
ated, taken by the college graduates for their Set- 
tlement. It was not quite at the extremity of 
degradation. But it was among the very poor, 
among those forsaken by the more fortunate, 
among those who needed immensely some source 
of cheer. And here the women, all well born, well 
bred, highly educated, with various gifts which 
might have won them applause before the world, 
founded a home, their own, where they could lead 
a useful life doing good as they had opportunity. 
Their idea was that brethren should dwell together, 
and not that castes and classes should be separated 
by impassable lines. Here they would live in or- 
derly and well-considered ways, and shed abroad 
what helpful influences they could. They made 


VIOLET LEE 


155 


the house as comfortable as possible in all inex- 
pensive ways. They had the premises all made 
scrupulously clean, and they called upon the city 
officials with a call that was at once heeded, to do 
their proper part of the work of the purification of 
the neighborhood. Then they tried various ways 
of making the acquaintance of their neighbors, at 
first with little success. The women did not take 
to them kindly, the men shunned them as much as 
possible. But the children they found accessible 
and it was with them that they began, especially 
with those who were sick, and whose pitiful plight 
appealed so strongly to their hearts. They distri- 
buted no alms, but they brought little neighborly 
gifts of nourishing and palatable food to the sick 
children, and upon request taught the mothers how 
to prepare the same, and showed them how inex- 
pensive the wholesome dishes might be. They 
revived almost dead motherly instincts in many 
hearts by their own gentle handling and kindly 
care of the little ones, and gradually put a little 
hope into hearts long given to despair. They did 
not seek a wide circle or to do great things. They 
began a humble but important work, in a modest 
and quiet way. 

If the poor were not so isolated, their degra- 
dation could never become so deep. A few of 


156 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


them here and there in the midst of more fortunate 
families, would receive great stimulus from their 
surroundings. Good people would become inter- 
ested in them and assist them in their sickness or 
misfortune, their children in schools and churches 
would become acquainted with a better class, more 
of them would find their way as helpers into the 
households about them, into the trades and handi- 
crafts followed by their neighbors. In short they 
would get to be known as individuals, and not be 
looked upon, and thought about, always, as a class 
distinct. But herded together in one section, that 
section is soon regarded as we regard a Chinese 
quarter, and is left to fester in its own rottenness 
unheeded by the outside world. Truly some oases 
like this College Settlement, are needed in these 
black deserts of the city. 

Victoria, who had not yet come to remain per 
manently in town, but was frequently with her 
friends in their Settlement, was one day leaving 
there when she noticed just ahead of her a young 
girl who walked with such unsteady steps that it 
seemed momentarily that she would fall. Victoria 
stepped a little faster and had just reached her 
side when she tottered and fell to the walk. She 
leaned over her and asked kindly if she were ill. 
“No,’’ came the low answer, “only faint.” Vic- 


yiOLET LEE 


157 


toria took out her vinaigrette and held it to the 
girl’s face for a few moments, then said: “Does 
that help you? Are you better now?” meantime 
noticing how very frail and delicate she looked. 

“Yes, I am better now. I think I can go on,” 
but on trying to rise, she grew fainter than be- 
fore. Victoria supported her to a door-step near 
by, and stood before her not knowing what to do. 
There was no carriage to be had, and she did not 
think the girl could walk back to the Settlement, 
near as it was to them. 

“Do not mind me, go on, I shall soon be bet- 
ter,” the girl said faintly. 

“No, I will not leave you. As soon as you re- 
vive a little, I will take you back a little way to a 
friend’s house, where you can rest.” 

“No, no, I must go home. Don’t keep me,” 
the girl cried in a voice of terror. 

“Not against your will certainly,” said Victoria. 
“Perhaps you live near by. Can I help you to 
reach there?” 

“No, no, leave me to myelf,” more terrified 
than ever apparently. 

“Will you sit here then while I go back to my 
friend’s house for something to give you which 
will revive you ?” 

“No, leave me, leave me. I don’t need any 


158 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


help. I can get home alone in a minute or two. 
Go.’^ 

But Victoria, looking in her ashen face, did not 
dare to obey her. She seemed to be very ill, and 
Victoria answered: “I do not like to leave you 
here alone. Suppose you should become uncon- 
scious in the street. You would better let me help 
you. You are not afraid of a woman,! am sure. 
I am your friend.” 

“No, no, go and leave me.” So Victoria turned 
back to her friend’s house, simply saying: “I will 
bring something for you.” In a few minutes she 
returned with a cup of beef tea which had just 
been made in the kitchen for a sick child. “Here 
is a cup of beef tea which is very stimulating. 
Drink it and you will feel better.” 

The girl took it reluctantly, but she had evi- 
dently made up her mind that she could not go on 
without some help. She felt better after taking 
the tea, and soon rose to go on. “I thank you. 
You have been very kind,” she said, and took a 
few steps forward. But she was too weak to walk 
alone, and Victoria took her by the arm, saying: 
“You must let me help you. Is it far.^^ Can you 
get there with my help?” The girl yielded then, 
but unwillingly. 

They walked slowly for a block or two, when 


VIOLET LEE 


150 


the girl indicated the house at which they were to 
stop. At the door she again insisted upon Vic- 
toria leaving her, but she was now quite exhausted, 
and Victoria did not dare to do so, though very 
reluctant to force herself upon the shrinking girl. 
“I must see you inside, my dear girl,” she said 
very firmly, “and see that some one cares for you.” 
The girl yielded again, too weak to contend, and 
they entered a room, where she sank completely 
exhausted on a bed. Victoria removed her wrap 
and loosened her dress. At this moment the feeble 
wail of an infant was heard coming from a little 
basket cradle near. The girl started and almost 
shrieked: “Oh the baby, the baby, she is hungry 
and I have not brought anything for her. I could 
not get any milk, though I tried.” She was half 
fainting again by this time, and Victoria was com- 
pletely at a loss what to do. She glanced hastily 
about the room. It was almost completely bare, 
though it was a very good room, and in a decent 
neighborhood. It flashed over her then, that this 
was one of those cases of extreme want, of which 
she had sometimes read, and had been told of by 
Mrs. Barry. Spite of the girl’s evident pride and 
wish for concealment she boldly faced the situ- 
ation. “You are ill for want of food, I fear. I will 
go out at once and bring something for you and 
the baby.” 


IGU 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


“No, I am not hungry in the least. But the 
baby wants her milk. You may bring milk for 
baby,’’ and she closed her eyes wearily and seemed 
to sleep. Victoria took the baby up and laid it 
beside her, then hastily left the house, and ran 
back once more to the Settlement. She obtained 
milk and bread and went back as quickly as possi- 
ble. She fed the baby and insisted upon the 
mother eating also of the bread and milk. She 
soon revived, held the baby close to her breast and 
said: “I have made you a great deal of trouble. 
I am greatly obliged, but shall get on quite well.” 

“I must go indeed. I shall lose my boat. But 
I have some very good friends near by. I wish 
you would allow me to ask them to come and see 
you. You must not fall ill here alone with the 
baby, you know.” 

“Oh I shall not fall ill. Baby is three months 
old now, and I am sure to be strong. I have not 
recovered yet, but I shall be well soon, I am sure. 
I will not trouble your friends.” 

“But I am coming to live with them soon my- 
self, and you will surely allow me to come and see 
this beautiful baby. I shall esteem it quite a privi- 
lege. I am every baby’s devoted friend.” 

She held out her hands to the baby who smiled 
a faint little smile in return, but made no motion 


VIOLET LEE 


161 


toward her. She had evidently not been used to 
going to any one but her mother. 

‘‘You must excuse me, but I do not think you 
will care to come again,’’ the mother replied 
proudly, but not unkindly. 

“I shall respect your wishes. I have no desire 
to intrude upon any one I assure you. But you 
are ill and not able to work yet, you must allow 
me to make you a little loan to keep you and the 
baby until you are stronger.” 

The woman began to cry, saying: “No, no, I 
can never repay it I am sure. Do not force me to 
receive your charity.” 

“But my dear girl, what are you to do. Some 
one must help you, and it is better I, than another.” 

“Oh I don’t know what to do,” cried the girl, “I 
cannot let baby starve, though I would gladly 
starve myself. Why, oh why did they not let me 
die. Now I donot dare die and leave my baby.” 

“No indeed you cannot desire to die, and leave 
this beautiful child motherless. And you are so 
young yourself, you must not get discouraged and 
think life has no value for you, for I am sure that 
with a little friendly assistance, you will soon be 
strong again and able to care for baby, as well as 
other good mothers have done.” 

“But how.^ That is what I think of all the time 


II 


162 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


I lie here. I could earn good wages in a store if 
I were well again, and free. I was not one of the 
cheap clerks who have such a struggle to live, I 
assure you. I always earned good wages, and I 
had quite a little money saved. But that is gone 
now, and I do not know any other way of earning 
money. I can retouch photographs though. I used 
to do that before I went into a store, just after I 
graduated from the High School. I could do that 
at home. That is why I went out this morning, to 
see if I could find work. And it was so dreadful to 
leave baby alone, and I was so weak, that it over- 
came me.” 

She stopped suddenly, realizing that she was 
revealing herself to a stranger, and Victoria said: 

“You must wait a while for that, I think. You 
must let me help you a little, until you get started. 
Women must help each other in extremities. You 
need not feel humiliated by receiving a loan from 
me, I may need the help of others sometime 
myself.” 

She placed a little sum of money in the girl’s 
hand, saying: “I must go now, but I shall be 
back in a short time, and than you will allow me 
to come and see you again, I am sure.” 

“But you will not send others. It would kill me 
tp spp mpre strange faces, Ypu arp an angel^ but 


VIOLET LEE 


163 


you hurt me so that I can hardly bear it.’^ 
She burst into passionate weeping, and the baby 
began to cry in its fright. She let it cry on un- 
heeded, while her sobs shook the whole bed. Vic- 
toria took the baby and quieted her, knowing that 
the girl’s grief must have vent, and hardly daring 
to speak lest she should say something which would 
wound her. When the girl’s paroxysm of tears 
had passed, she lay quite exhausted on the pillow, 
white and still. As she took the baby back from 
Victoria’s arms she said almost wildly: ‘‘A girl, a 
girl, that it should be a girl,” and wept again. 
Victoria did not dare leave her, and decided to give 
up her homeward trip for the day. She remained 
the rest of the day in the little room, and as the 
girl seemed better by night, she went out and 
purchased some supplies for the little household, 
saw that mother and babe ate their supper, and 
were safe in bed, then kissed the girl where she lay, 
the sweet babe also, and left them. She told her 
adventure to her friends, and retired, but not to 
sleep. Hour after hour she lay in open-eyed wakeful 
ness, thinking. This face to face contact with human 
misery was a harder thing than she had dreamed. 
Her sympathies were perfectly fresh as yet, and 
her pity for this girl cut her to the quick. If she 
continued to live among these people her sensi- 


164 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


bilities would become blunted, and she would be 
able to work for them, even to feel for them, with- 
out this acuteness of sorrow. But to-night, this 
helpless woman with her woe lay upon her heart 
literally like a heavy weight. 

She rose weary and unrefreshed, and went at 
once to see after her charges. She found the girl 
much improved. The touch of a friendly hand 
had done even more for her than the nourishing 
food which had been supplied, and Victoria felt no 
hesitation in leaving her and taking the first train 
for Klosterheim. As she narrated her adventure at 
the dinner-table, Richard Savage seemed much 
impressed by it. He asked many questions about 
the girl’s looks and appearance and at last he ex- 
claimed: ‘H believe it is the girl I rescued from 
drowning the day I came to Klosterheim.” 

Victoria thought this was probable also, when 
that story had been told. But Mr. Armstrong 
thought it quite improbable and reminded them 
of the almost daily occurrence of these tragedies. 
‘H shall never ask her any questions,” Victoria re- 
plied, ‘^but I am sure she will tell me sometime.” 

As Richard walked away from the table and out 
into the open air his mind dwelt persistently upon 
this subject. How divinely pitiful this high-bred 
woman was toward one whom the world at large 


yiOLET LEE 


165 


would doubtless scorn and shun. He had been 
reading Rossetti’s “Jenny/’ and he kept repeat- 
ing to himself the lines 

“If but a woman’s heart might see 
Such woman’s heart unerringly 
For once. But that can never be.” 

But spite of Rossetti he knew that it had been, 
that such transparent purity as Victoria’s had read 
this story 

“like a rose shut in a book 
In which pure women may not look,” 

and read it truly, and that from this sympathetic 
knowledge had come only a compassion that was 
Christ-like, rather than human. The fair saint 
who was now ever before his eyes, took on even 
more radiant beauty, more matchless perfection, 
from the thought. 

He wandered far off into the now leafless woods 
and brooded in secret over all that had befallen 
him since first he had seen the one woman, among 
all women, who should henceforth rule his life. 
He worshipped her afar off as one might worship 
a star, hardly daring to lift his eyes to behold her, 
so humble was he, yet willing to give his life if 
need be, to save her soul a single pang. He saw 
even more clearly than she could have wished, 
how her way was parted from his way. He hardly 
dared cross her shadow, so separate and apart 
she seemed; he did not even say to himself the 


166 


FENCING IVITH SH/IDOIVS 


word it made his heart afraid to know that he was 
thinking; but his whole being was filled neverthe- 
less with the deep delight of loving, not at all as 
yet with its inevitable pain. After all what was it 
that kept him so aloof? 

“Waters engulfing or fires that devour? 

Earth heaped against him or death in the air?” 

It is hard to say just what the thought was that 
was in his heart, it was intangible, but effective, 
and forbade him to even look at her too boldly. 
Perhaps it was the delicacy of the man’s own soul 
which revealed to him the remoteness of her 
thought from him, the shadowy but impassable 
barrier which nature, or fate, or perhaps God, 
has set up between some men and some women. 

He walked slowly through the woods tO‘day lost 
in his dreams. He scarcely noticed how the gray 
willows danced in a ghostly fashion by the borders 
of the stream, how the last late grasshoppers sang 
in the dry weeds, how the shy fishes leaped in the 
chill water, or how the wild duck shot across the 
rippled surface of the pool. On the faint wind 
floated the silky seeds, the ghosts of summer fled, 
the long limbed waders splashed boldly amid the 
reeds, the nimble squirrels leaped across his path, 
and from the copse rang the farewell chorus of 
departing birds, but his keen eye and ear took in 
nothing of these familiar sights and sounds. He 


yiOLET LEE 


167 


loved these autumn woods. Not more dear to 
him the multitudinous blossoming of the young 
spring with all its sensuous ecstasy, or the languor- 
ous sweet summer with its tremulous opal-hued 
morns, and its eves like seas of purple and of 
beaten gold, flecked with argosies of white drifting 
clouds. Not even early autumn with its passionate 
pageantry was dearer than this paler picture 
etched before his eyes, in such sweet austerity. 
Crocus and daffodil and yellow-belled laburnum 
were not missed, while still the beautiful bare trees 
arched above his head, and his feet pressed the 
soft sweet scented moss on which he loved to 
tread. Only to be banished from it all would 
hurt, to be shut up again as for a few brief weeks 
he had been, in the dread and desolate city. To 
the time which must come, he knew, when he 
should return to that life, he looked forward with 
horror. But he never put the thought from him 
that he must go. He only hoped for a little res- 
pite, for a few days more of dalliance with ease 
and sweet enticing dreams. Then he would go 
forth to battle as the knights of old, for the Holy 
Sepulcher, for the rights of outraged humanity. 
For such girls as Victoria had found, weltering in 
despair, for little children trodden by the iron heels 
of demons, for all who were friendless and helpless 
and forsaken. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A QUIET DAY 

Victoria and Lizelle had spent a quiet day to- 
gether busied with many womanly matters. Vic- 
toria had been arranging her wardrobe preparatory 
to going to the city, for several months at least. 
She had handed over a great many pretty trifles to 
Lizelle, who was delighted to possess them, but 
could not be reconciled to Victoria’s reasons for 
parting with them. shall have no use what- 
ever for them, my dear,” she said to the unwilling 
recipient of the gifts, “and you will be able to 
wear them a great deal here at home. There will 
be considerable company this winter.” 

“And you not here! Oh what good will com- 
pany be without you, my dearest, dearest sister,” 
the girl answered clinging to Victoria’s necK and 
crying softly. 

“Oh, I shall be here at times of course. But 
you will have to do the young lady’s part in the 
home, and you must look very nice.” 

“Oh, don’t go away, dear, let all the dreadful 
108 


A QUIET DAY 169 

City people take care of themselves and stay with 
us/^ 

“Why Lizelle, are you getting a little bit selfish, 
dear?’’ 

“Well, send Mr. Savage then, we can spare him 
as well as not, and he will do vastly better than 
you among the people down there.” 

“And where would my sister’s lessons be then, 
poor thing?” 

“I would study them alone, and be just as faith- 
ful as I could possibly, or I would say them all to 
Mr. Aubrey,” she added, laughing and clapping 
her hands. 

“What an absurd little girl.” 

“But he teaches me to draw. I have had two 
lessons, and I am to copy a lot of things in a 
book before he comes again.” 

“That is very good-natured of Mr. Aubrey, 
to be sure. But it is only a whim of his, and will 
not last long. He knew there was no one else 
here who could teach you, and he thought it would 
please you for a little while, I suppose.” 

“But it will please me a long time. I am going 
to make a business of drawing, you know. I don’t 
care for the other things, nor much for this,” she 
added naively, “only because Mr. Aubrey is in it.” 

“You must not think so much about Mr. Aubrey, 


170 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


my little sister/^ said Victoria gravely. “He is a 
distinguished artist, a great deal older than you 
are, and thinks of pleasing you just as he would 
of petting a child. 

“Well, I love to be petted just like a child, and 
that is just the way I want him to feel,’’ she 
answered with equal gravity, though she had a 
surprised look on her face. Victoria was sorry 
she had spoken as she jdid, though she had felt for 
some time that Lizelle should have a word of 
warning. Now she feared she had put a thought 
into the girl’s mind which was not there before, 
and which would better not be there, so she said: 
“Certainly, my dear, you want and expect to be 
treated like a child by all men, for some time to 
come, and especially by your elders like Mr. Au- 
brey. He is very good to you, and you are right 
to like him. But don’t think too much about any- 
one except your own dear family, will you.^” and 
she put her arm caressingly about Lizelle’s waist. 
Lizelle kissed her a dozen times in answer. 

“But I shall dress up in all these fine things for 
Mr. Aubrey, because he always notices just what I 
wear and tells me the things which suit me. That 
is because he is an artist, you know,” she added 
demurely. 

“Yes, and he will probably want to paint your 









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A QUIET DAY 


171 



portrait some day, artists always do that, and you 
mustn’t be too much flattered by it, because he will 
want it for a study of something or other he is 
doing, and there will be nothing very personal 
about it.’’ 

Victoria said this because he had said to her 
once or twice that he should like to make a sketch 
of Lizelle just now, before she lost her childish 
charm. 

% 

“That would be too delightful. But you need 
not suppose I should take it as a very great com- 
pliment, because he confided to me one day that 
he wanted to sketch Kitty Barry, and wondered if 
she would sit to him.” 

Here Lizelle laughed in great glee, and gave a 
very good imitation of Kitty’s general appearance 
in a few comical grimaces. 

“You might be taken together then,” said Vic- 
toria laughing. 

“One thing I want lo know,” Lizelle began 
after a pause, ’“and that is how I am ever to en- 
tertain Lord Chesterfield when he comes up, after 
you are gone. I can’t introduce the cats and dogs 
into the foreground, when he is to be interested, 
as I do for Mr. Aubrey, and I am sure we couldn’t 
have drawing lessons, or any other sensible amuse- 
ment. I should be as much at a loss as I am with 


172 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


Mr. Savage, and cannot even fall back upon asking 
him to enlighten my ignorance as I do with that 
reverend gentlemen.’’ 

She looked very mischievous as she spoke, and 
Victoria, a little embarrassed, could only say: 
“Where did you pick Lord Chesterfield up.^”’ 

“Oh Mr. Aubrey called him that one day.” 

“Mr. Aubrey should not call names,” and she 
grew suddenly very busy over her packing.. Just 
before tea time Mr. Aubrey appeared. Victoria 
kept purposely in the background until after Li- 
zelle had given him her enthusiastic welcome, fear- 
ing that after what had been said in the afternoon 
Lizelle might not be quite at ease with him, before 
her. But the child was too innocent and too light- 
hearted to have received a very strong impression 
from what had been said, and she was as frolic- 
some and gay as ever, while Mr. Aubrey seemed in 
great spirits. Observing them quietly, Victoria 
felt all her undefined fekrs taking form. How 
easily such an effectionate nature could be wounded 
she thought. How impossible that a man like 
Aubrey could care for a child like Lizelle, except in 
the general manner of liking all who were young 
and new. How easy for Lizelle to love him, so 
different from any one she had ever known, and so 
fascinating as he was known to be to all sorts and 


A QUIET DAY 173 

conditions of women. She was so anxious to ward 
off any trouble of this kind which might possibly 
come to Lizelle, that she determined to say a word 
if she could get the opportunity which should 
warn Mr. Aubrey from too great attention to Li- 
zelle during her absence. The winter was sure to 
be somewhat lonely here, and felt sure that 
out of the kindness of his heart, and his liking for 
the young girl, he would try to amuse and cheer her. 
How beautiful the girl was. Her soft eyes with 
their transparent lids had in them hidden springs 
of mirth which under their dark lashes, shook into 
tremulous sparkles, her complexion was the creamy 
white of water-lilies, and her smile a marvelous 
lighting-up of the whole face. Victoria had never 
been so fond of any one as she was of Lizelle, and 
her feeling toward her now was growing into a 
holy thought which was a prayer before she knew 
it. Quite unexpectedly this evening Mr. Webster 
walked in with Mr. Armstrong from the train. 
There were warm greetings, Lizelle leaving Mr. 
Aubrey and running over to Mr. Webster with 
both hands extended, Victoria cordially welcom- 
ing, with her face lit up with pleasure, and Aubrey 
bowing low and saying; divined you would be 
here, so ran over to see that you did not get lone- 
some.’’ Mr. Webster answered him — rather coldly. 


174 


FENCING WITH SHADOJVS 


He was really, annoyed to find him here. Why 
was he always here? Did he then come every 
day? Was Victoria pleased to have him call so 
often? Doubtless, for it was rather lonely here, 
and he, their most particular friend. But it did 
not please Mr. Webster. He had looked upon 
Aubrey’s visits with disfavor from the first. Of 
course he was intimate with Mr. Armstrong — but 
Webster remembered of Mrs. Armstrong’s saying 
that they had seldom seen him until Victoria came 
home. He knew of Victoria’s plans for going to 
the city, and he did not wish them to be carried 
out. He had been cherishing other plans which 
he fondly hoped to consummate. Ever since the 
first visit of Victoria to his office he had. felt an un- 
usual interest in her, and in all that concerned 
her. He did not for some time recognize this in- 
terest for love, nor was it that at first. But he had 
enjoyedseeing her, and talking with her, as he had 
enjoyed seeing no other woman yet in the course 
of his rather secluded life. He recognized her 
equality with himself in intellect, as he had never re- 
cognized that of any woman; he admired her high 
bred grace and perfect manner; and he was 
charmed with her gentleness and care for others. 
She had grown to represent to him the perfect 
woman nobly planned. A little later he began to 


A QUIET DAY 


175 


feel his personal need of her. He had for a long 
‘time been perfectly content with his somewhat 
isolated life. He had felt no particular need of 
love or sympathy, except such as his mother gave 
him. Suddenly he began to yearn for a nearer 
companionship, for womanly hands within his own,, 
for tender tones of greeting, for a love surpassing 
any love he had yet known. Now he had grown 
to feel that if this should be denied him, life would 
lose its worth, and the • future become a blank. 
He was not very confident of success in his supreme 
undertaking. He had no means of judging of 
Victoria’s feeling in the matter. He had made 
haste slowly for this reason. He felt that no 
sudden passion could be expected of so well-poised 
a woman. But he thought she might grow into 
love, if a man seemed worthy and unselfish enough. 
She had never shown him any preference. She 
had treated him with the same simple grace and 
courtesy, with which she treated all — nothing 
more. He felt sure that a man must work to win her, 
and here was this Aubrey always at hand, with his 
brilliant, dashing talk, and his manner of flatter- 
ing devotion, To-night he had meant to get a 
little nearer to Victoria, to test her feeling if 
possible, perhaps to ask her to give up her scheme 
of devotion to the people, for that of a single 


176 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


devotion to one who loved her passionately. But 
he could hardly hope to see her for a moment 
alone, with this unwelcome visitor present. He 
felt disappointed and hurt. If Victoria ones be- 
came engaged in her new work she would not 
abandon it lightly, he felt sure, and it would be 
hard for him to wait any longer. He had grown 
very impatient of late. The days seemed long 
that separated him from her. If once she was his 
own, he thought the moments would speed so 
quickly, that a thousand years would be but as the 
lingering of a summer’s day. He longed to over- 
leap the brief space which must necessarilly elapse 
before he could hope to have her ever with him. His 
love had become clamorous and had asserted its 
sovereignty once for all. He was a man of passion- 
ate feeling, though outwardly self-contained, some- 
what cold perhaps. He was astonished at his own 
vehemence now. He found himself made of one 
clay with other men, whom he had lightly scorned 
at times, for casting their whole lives upon such a 
throw as this. Heretofore he had ruled his love — 
now his love was to rule him. 

In the course of the conversation which followed 
after the friends were seated in a group, Mr. 
Aubrey said to Victoria: ‘^So you are really going 
as a missionary to the heathen 


A QUIET DAY 


177 


“I do not put it exactly in that way/^ she replied. 

“Well I do, and I am very glad it is no worse. 
You might have gone off to Boraboola-Gha, or 
to the Pigmies of Central Africa, or to the Jews or 
Turks or Russians, Malays or Hottentots. As it 
is you are within reach and we can send out a 
party and rescue you at any time we think best. 
Besides I approve of beginning at home. It costs 
almost as much to convert a foreign-born heathen 
as it does to kill an Indian, and the price is ex- 
orbitant. Besides the home product is worth more 
when it is saved. There is a caste in souls just as 
much as in bodies.’’ 

“That may be,” Victoria answered gravely, “but 
if I knew just where the lowest caste was, and 
was able to reach it, it would be for it that I 
should work.” 

“How differently you feel from the great body 
of good Christians ! The perishing upper classes 
are their peculiar care. I belong to Trinity 
church, and we are the richest religious corporation 
in the land, I believe. Our income would go along 
way toward renovating the quarter you are going 
to visit, but we cannot afford to start any great 
educational or charitable enterprise down there, 
because we must work for the salvation of Fifth 
Avenue at all hazards. They need our efforts 


12 


178 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


too, I assure you,’’ he added laughing, “for souls 
must be created for the most of them, out of whole 
cloth, if they are to be saved, and it’s expensive. 
But what are you going to preach to these low 
’ caste souls down there. Miss Victoria.?” 

“Perhaps out of your great wisdom you would 
give rrie a message to them,” she answered, still 
gravely, “I don’t feel that I have any particular 
evangel for them.” 

“Well, if I were going to preach to them, I would 
say to the men: ‘You’ll never be any better ofi 
till you desert the dram shops, educate yourselves, 
and organize your labor. ’ And to the women I 
would say: ‘You have demoralized the whole iur 
dustrial world by crowding forward as bread-win- 
ners, and underbidding the men of your own fami- 
lies — sons, brothers and husbands — for employ- 
ment in every occupation you have any liking for, 
or any work you can possibly do. You now work, 
while they are idle. It should be the other way. 
You should keep the home and care for the chil- 
dren, while the men labor for you outside. If 
there is work enough for all — then take your share, 
but insist upon the same wages as your sons and 
husbands get for the same work.’ Now the cheap 
labor of women and children has reduced wages 
below the life limit — and you all starve together.” 


A QUIET DAY 


179 


‘‘I am told/^ remarked Mr. Webster, “that great 
efforts have been made to organize the labor of 
women with that end in view, but that they have 
failed so far. It is the only solution of the pres- 
ent problem of starvation wages, I suppose. But 
it will take a long time to educate the women up 
to it, with the present inadequate means of reach- 
ing them.” 

“Well I will give them your message if I ever get 
the opportunity,” said Victoria smiling, “or per- 
haps you will come and give it yourself. Your 
word would go much farther than mine.” 

“Go as a missionary, Aubrey, to Trinity church,” 
said Mr. Webster, “such an active member ought 
to have a good deal of influence. Tell her to un- 
lock her millions, blot out all the old tenements 
in the Fourth Ward, and put up habitations fit for 
human beings, then send men and women down 
there to teach them how to live. That one church 
might bring in a miniature millennium if it would. 
Go and cry ‘woe unto it’ like the old prophets, 
Aubrey.” 

“If I were a Luther or a Savonarola I would 
make just that crusade — not against Trinity alone, 
but the church generally.” 

Mr. Aubrey had tired of his serious mood by 
this time, and went off to find Lizelle, who had 


180 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


slipped away. He did not find her in the library, 
as he expected. Victoria, who had still in mind 
her purpose of speaking to him of Lizelle, followed 
him, thinking this might be her last chance of see 
ing him alone, and Mr. Webster was left with Mr. 
Armstrong. He felt very uncomfortable as the 
minutes slipped away, and they ‘did not return. 
Were his worst fears to be realized.^ Had this 
matter taken itself out of his hands entirely.? He 
felt assured that it had — grew almost certain of it, 
as he exaggerated in his own mind every little cir- 
cumstance that had put the suspicion into his 
mind, and he became suddenly hopeless and des- 
pairing. 

Lizelle and Mrs. Armstrong came in, and noticed 
at once that he was distrait and troubled, and be- 
gan to talk to him in an animated way, to arouse 
his interest. But he answered absent-mindedly, 
and they knew his thoughts were not with them. 
It was not long before Victoria came back, while 
Aubrey went off to see the dogs. No one else 
thought anything of their short absence, but it was 
long before the suspicion aroused by it entirely 
disappeared from Mr. Webster's mind. 

But Victoria sat at his side at table, and they 
had a long and very agreeable talk together. He 
planned there, to come and see her in the city. 


A QUIET DAY 


181 


and was somewhat reassured, though he did not 
seek an opportunity of seeing her alone that even- 
ing, as he had proposed to do, when coming up. 
Was it chance or was it Fate that had placed this 
slight but all-powerful barrier between these two.^^ 


CHAPTER XVII 


A NEW LIFE 

Victoria felt very strange and lost in her new 
home, and suffered cruel agonies of homesickness. 
She had never lived in a large city before since 
early childhood, the college from which she had 
graduated being situated in a very delightful 
country place. The greater part of her life had 
been spent at Klosterheim, and she would have 
found even the better portion of New York cramp- 
ed and unattractive. But to rise in the rnorning to 
look upon these dilapidated streets, to see these 
miserable crowds go past, to breathe this vile air, 
and never to see the sun, made her very wretched. 
Could she have reconciled her conscience to it she 
would have retreated. But she felt a real call to 
this work, and she did not dare to disregard the 
summons. 

All enthusiasms have their ebb and flow. To 
the young heart just looking out on life, it seems 
easy, in some good cause to perish, rushing into 
it with a fiery zeal that is inspiring to himself and 
182 


i 


A NEIV LIFE 183 

to on-lookers. Then comes the check, the change, 
the fall, and full of doubt and discouragement, he 
looks longingly back upon the pleasant places he 
has left, and tries to think 

“That every worm beneath the moon, 

Draws different threads, and late or soon, 

Spins, toiling out his own cocoon ’’ 

and that one cannot much help another in the 
task. 

The women with whom Victoria found herself 
associated had gone through this trial each in her 
own way, and had now entered upon their work 
with eyes single to the cause of human helpfulness. 
They had become cheerful and confident, and day 
by day found a reward for their labors in what 
they could already see of improvement among 
their new friends. Miss Hale was the oldest of 
these women, and the real head of the enterprise. 
She was a woman of thirty, well born and well 
bred and of great force of character. This was no 
mere episode in her life. She had deliberately 
surrendered a life of ease and culture, and under- 
taken to do a needed work in a modest way. She 
especially deprecated having any publicity given 
to their enterprise. They had gone quietly to the 
place and entered upon their work, before even 
their intimate friends knew of the undertaking, 
and now they sedulously repelled any attempts to 


184 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


thrust an unwelcome notoriety upon them. She 
had known of such well-meant efforts being ruined 
by unwise friends, who thrust a publicity upon 
those engaged in them, which was undesired and 
finally fatal. She would have none of this. 

The rage for writing up all charitable and 
benevolent work soon put reporters upon their 
track, who came with their offensive questioning, 
only to be dismissed with the quiet information, 
that this was a private house, the home of women 
who had no desire to have any allusion made to 
it by their good friends the newspapers. The 
well-meant praise, even flattery, of the press is 
very demoralizing even to well-poised men and 
women who engage in public work. Too often it 
is given before it is deserved, and sometimes those 
who deserve it most, go entirely without it. Miss 
Hale well knew that thus far they had done noth- 
ing deserving praise, or even comment, and she 
refused to be spoiled by premature recognition or 
to have her co-workers so spoiled. The modern 
fashion of blowing a trumpet before you when you 
visit the widow and the fatherless in their affliction, 
was not at all to her mind. She was rather an 
austere little woman throughout. Plain in looks, 
quaint in dress, a little sharp in speech, and utterly 
intolerant of all hypocrisy, she would not have 


A NEIV LIFE 


185 


been received v^ith great favor in fashionable society 
and it was perhaps as well that she felt the utmost 
scorn and contempt for it, and never alluded to it 
but with a biting, if good-natured, sarcasm. Men 
she treated with a superb but silent scorn. If in 
her younger days she had ever seen one who found 
favor in her eyes, she probably had not found 
favor with him, and the world would never know 
her weakness. 

Her friends. Miss Lucas and Miss May, were 
younger and more in love with the world, but in 
deep earnest in their new work, and very success- 
ful in interesting and aiding those about them, 
especially the young. Victoria would learn much 
from each one of them, and would be stronger in 
many ways than either of them. She did not pro- 
pose a long residence here as the others did. She 
wanted to learn practically the condition, wants 
and needs, of the poorer classes, and to study 
scientifically into the best methods of help and 
healing. She could make a beginning here; what 
she should end in doing, or thinking, she did not 
know. At present that which her hand found to do 
she would do and with her might. Perhaps in her 
mind there was not that singleness of purpose 
which would enable her to throw her whole soul 
into her work. She had not felt it necessary 


186 


FENCING IVITH SH^DOIVS 


“against the truth of love to raise rebellion or to 
def}^ his holy flames.” She would have asked from 
fortune nothing better than to have sat quietly at 
home these days and dreamed a girl’s sweet dreams. 
All selfish inclination pointed to this. But every 
nobler impulse of her nature moved her to give a 
little of her happy youth, of her fresh untried 
strength, to the help of others. If she could, by 
deed or word, help to make less the sum of human 
wretchedness, she would feel more worthy of her 
own happiness. 

She had been given by nature a high moral ideal 
which had been strengthened by association with 
other minds. She had also been endowed with 
courage, and strength of mind, and great mental 
endurance, and was thus fitted for the hard work 
she had undertaken, and for the fulfillment to the 
uttermost of every command she had received, 
and the complete development of every power and 
gift that had been bestowed upon her. She would 
yet learn that the highest good, even the highest 
happiness, of every creature, is in this very exer- 
cise of its own peculiar functions, by which its 
strength is increased, and its inherent energy 
developed. Her work would grow to seem to her 
the better part of her life, and not something ex- 
traneous, which she was to accomplish as a task, 


A NEIV LIFE 


187 


before she entered upon her real enjoyment of ex- 
istence. Her magnificent energy would always 
give more satisfaction to labor, than to the repose 
after labor, even when that repose was accompanied 
by calmness ,and trust, and the consciousness of 
duty accomplished. But she shrank from enter- 
ing upon an untried path, and dreaded, even 
morbidly, to place herself in contact with this new 
life. She especially dreaded going to see the 
young girl whose name she had ascertained at her 
last visit to be Violet Lee. It was with the utmost 
reluctance that she forced herself to make her first 
visit. She found her improving, and able and 
anxious to undertake some work. She remained 
with the baby while the mother went out to see 
what she could find to do. It was with very singu- 
lar feelings that she found herself thus left in charge 
of this little waif of humanity. It was a fair sweet 
baby with all the winning ways of its more for- 
tunate fellows. Its trusting smile won Victoria’s 
heart while she watched it, and its cozy nestling 
in her arms when she took it up gave her a certain 
sense of responsibility for it. She handled it with 
a loving touch, and gazed steadily into its dark 
eyes, wondering what fate had in store for it. Its 
innocent confidence in her touched her to the 
heart, and led her to make an inward promise 


188 


FENCING IVITH SHADOJVS 


that no barm should ever come to it which she had 
the power to avert. She^baptized it with her love, 
and resolved to stand sponsor for it before God. 
She breathed a fervent prayer to Him for his 
benediction upon the rite. After a long time the 
mother returned, all her strength gone, all her 
morning’s cheerfulness vanished. Her heart had 
been broken anew. She had obtained a little 
work on trial, and would have been encouraged, 
except for the fact of having met one or two old 
friends who had passed her by unnoticed. ^‘Oh 
I cannot live,” she moaned throwing herself upon 
the bed, “I cannot live, why did they not let me 
die. The water was not as cold as the world is. 
I should have sunk and no one would ever have 
known. But now, I die daily. I knew I could 
not bear it, I am not strong enough. I felt it be- 
fore it came — all the world’s scorn, all the bitter- 
ness of old friends, everything. Oh let me die — 
let me die, and not try any more.” 

Victoria sat down beside her, her own heart 
aching with sorrowful sympathy, and tried to calm 
and soothe her. But she continued to weep pas- 
sionately and to moan: “Oh I cannot try any 
more. I am not strong enough. Let me die,” 

Victoria sat silent, not daring to offer a false 
comfort, and feeling within her inmost heart that 


A NEIV LIFE 


189 


it were indeed best if the poor young thing could 
lay her burden down. But she knew that death, 
the great consoler, would not come. He holds 
aloof from those who call upon him so wildly, to 
pluck the happy in the midst of their joy and the 
useful in the midst of their usefulness. 

So she tried to think of life, instead of death, for 
this poor bereaved heart, and to plan how all 
might be made a little more endurable for her. 
After a time she beguiled the girl with the baby, 
and then sat listening to her as she talked of all 
her troubles. Making Victoria promise most 
solemnly never to repeat what she said, Violet 
told the whole story of her life, in a wild excited 
way, her words often interrupted by torrents of 
tears. Victoria heard reluctantly, and in an agony 
of mind compared to which every thing she had 
ever endured of suffering or of dread — was as 
nothing. She poured out her tears as water, and 
her sympathy as in a flood. When it was over, 
and she forced herself to listen to the uttermost 
word, she rose up with but one wish -one wild 
mad wish — to get away — to fly — to be alone. 

But she forced herself to be calm, to promise 
to return next day — to assure the girl that what 
she had told should be held sacred — and to promise 
that she would still stand her friend. Then she 


190 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


went quickly from the house, almost ran to her 
home, shut and locked herself in her own room, 
and faced the knowledge of what there is in this 
world of ours, of sorrow and shame, of deadly 
wrong, and of impotent justice, with a heart which 
was so full of hot rebellious rage, that it seemed 
to her it would burst from her bosom. 

She had heard these things in a vague, distant 
way before — as most women hear them, and they 
had moved her more than they do the most of 
human kind — but to hear them at first hand — to 
have them driven into her brain with such keen 
torture, to feel that nevermore could she escape 
the knowledge, that life must mean this one thing 
to her, hatred and antagonism of such wrong and 
crime, this was new to her. 

She did not weep, she sat in stony calm, but 
in her heart was the heaviness of death. Youth, 
love, joy, seemed a distant dream — a mirage which 
had vanished — a fable, a phantom, a show. The 
summons to supper found her still sitting there, 
cold, faint, utterly unnerved. She sent a message 
that she would not be down, and sat there in the 
gathering darkness torturing herself more and more. 
Night came on, and physically worn out, she 
crept into bed, thinking wearily over and over 
again of all that she had heard, of all the cruel 


A NEJV LIFE 


191 


knowledge that the last few months had brought 
her. 

She tried to escape from this by making plans of 
work which she would enter upon at once, looking 
to the aid and protection of such girls as Violet 
Lee. But her mind refused to act save in one 
direction, and she lay there brooding upon the 
same thought until morning dawned. By this 
time her head was aching, her pulse was quickened 
and her strength gone. She was not able to rise 
that day, but lay there restless, and feverish, until 
another morning came around. Then she rose 
up haggard and white, and went about her new 
duties. She went herself to the photographer’s, 
and procured work for Violet Lee. Upon her 
recommendation plenty of work was given, and a 
fair price promised to the worker. It was very 
painful to her to go to the girl’s rooms again. But 
she bravely carried out her purpose to set her upon 
her feet again. The rooms which had been stripped 
bare by Violet in her necessity were made com- 
fortable once more, food and necessary clothing 
were bought, and the recipient encouraged to go 
to work once more. Violet wept when she left 
her, but the baby smiled the sweet smile of inno- 
cence and trust, and Victoria felt that however 
hard it might be for her to see them often, she 
would not fail to do so, for the sweet child’s sake. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


QUESTION AND ANSWER 

The next evening Mr. Webster was announced 
to Victoria as she sat very lonely and depressed 
in her own room. He rose to greet her as she 
came in, and instantly noticed how pale and ill 
she looked. “You are not well, Miss Armstrong. 
This life is too hard for you. I was sure it would 
be so. You must allow me to persuade you to 
leave it.’^ 

“I am quite well, thank you, Mr. Webster, but 
I have had rather a hard experience since I came 
to town. Perhaps I show it in my looks.” 

“Indeed you do, and I am firmly persuaded that 
you will not be able to endure the strain which 
will be upon you all the time.” 

Then very tenderly and earnestly he spoke of 
his regard for her, and of all the sweet hopes that 
had been formed within his heart. He was deeply 
moved and he did not fail to move her. She shivered 
as with cold, and grew pale about the lips, but 
she answered him calmly, coldly, and in a man- 


QUESTION AND ANSIVER 


193 


ner which left no chance open for appeal — “she was 
very sorry to have raised hopes in his heart which 
could never be realized.” She sat quite silent 
after she had said this, for some moments, and 
Mr. Webster, too much surprised and hurt to at- 
tempt any ordinary conversation, soon rose and 
took his leave. He walked away down the street 
slowly, as if dazed, and hardly knew which way 
his steps were tending. It was a cruel blow to 
him, and yet he did not blame her. He could not 
in his inmost heart accuse her of any coquetry, of 
luring him on to this declaration with any false 
show of regard. She had been cordial, friendly, 
interested in him, nothing more. Still he had 
hoped — hoped confidently. How could he have 
been so deceived.^^ He thought over every hour of 
their intercourse. It was all delightful to him in 
the recollection, but he could not gain much com- 
fort from it. If there had been anything encour- 
aging in her manner, it had been something so in- 
tangible that he could not put it into words — 
scarcely into a definite thought. But that was all 
natural with a girl of such delicacy of feeling as 
Victoria. Any premature display of feeling upon 
the part of the woman he loved would have been 
distasteful to him. Now he thought that guarded 
manner had arisen from indifference, and won- 
13 


194 


FENCING IVITH SHADOPFS 


dered why he had not recognized it as such. 

His pride was deeply wounded to have made 
such a mistake. And through all his meditations 
upon the subject now and afterward ran the thought 
of Aubrey. He had heard much of the artist’s 
popularity among women. The story had been 
current in the city, when he retired to his country 
home, that he had been forced to run away from 
his admirers, who did not leave him a moment 
for art, so many the demands they made upon 
him for society. To be sure he was much older 
than Victoria, but Webster was well enough versed 
in matters of the heart to know that disparity of age 
made little difference in a young girl’s first de- 
votion. He remembered Elaine, the lily maid of 
Astolat, how when she first looked on Lancelot 

“Of more than twice her years, 

Seamed with an ancient sword-cut on the cheek, 

“ And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes 

And loved him, with that love which was her doom.'’ 

But if Victoria loved Aubrey why was she here.^^ 
That he would entirely disapprove of such self- 
sacrifice Mr. -Webster felt certain. That he could 
influence Victoria if she loved him, seemed very 
probable, though her great devotion to duty was 
not to be left out of the account. 

He thought all these things over until utterly ex- 
hausted. He sought his rooms and tried to put the 
whole thing from him, to recover the calm of a 


QUESTION AND ANSWER 


195 


few months before, when all such thoughts seemed 
foreign to him. But the old calm would not come 
at his bidding. He spent a night of feverish un- 
rest, with the image of Victoria ever before his 
eyes. Next morning he tried to plunge into busi- 
ness, but with small success. He could not fix his 
wandering thoughts upon a single point, try as he 
might, and at last, disgusted with his own folly, he 
gave up and threw himself upon his office couch, to 
resume once more the old train of thought. 

In a little while the door opened and Richard 
Savage entered. Mr. Webster rose, glad of a dis- 
traction from his unwelcome thought, and greeted 
him heartily. Mr. Webster’s manner was always 
deferential to all, and extremely cordial to his 
friends. Richard had always been ill at ease with 
Mr. Aubrey with his mocking cynicism, and had 
avoided him as much as possible; he had not felt 
easy with Mr. Armstrong, though he had liked 
him sincerely; but with Mr. Webster he was at 
home from the first. 

“I am rather surprised to see you in town. Sav- 
age. I thought the charms of Klosterheim would 
never allow you to stray so far,” said Mr. Webster 
a little awkwardly. He was not quite himself this 
morning, and Richard was not long in discover- 
ing it. 


196 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


“I should never have grown weary of Kloster- 
heim, Mr. Webster, but I have left it. Mr. Arm- 
strong’s book is copied, and though I might have 
staid on as tutor to Miss Lizelle, I thought it time 
to return to New York.” 

“And what will you set about now, if I may 
ask.^” 

“Well, I have a little money now. I shall take 
a room, and look about me. I want to find some 
work that will keep me — but will not demand all 
my time. I have many plans for work among the 
poor, which I am sure would result in good, if I 
could devote myself entirely to them.” 

“Why not do that.? As a city missionary you 
could live among them, get personally acquainted 
with some, and influence many indirectly.” 

“But I am not a preacher.” 

“You do not need to be. But I do not doubt 
that you will gather these people together and talk 
to them, of all that seems good to you. You are 
fitted for that I think, and would succeed. You 
can’t do much with them until you change the 
whole tenor of their thought.” 

“I know that. I don’t know how you divined 
it, but I have wanted to preach — at least to speak 
— always. But I thought until now that I had 
nothing to say. Because I could not preach as 


QUESTION AND ANSIVER 197 

others, because I have no personal knowledge of 
the kind of religion which is their theme, I felt 
that there was nothing I could offer to my hearers 
which they would be the better for hearing. Now 
that I have seen the population of these streets, I 
feel that I have something to say that they should 
hear, and that I must say it. I have nothing for 
the educated, the fortunate, the happy — but these 
poor souls — I know I can talk to them, and I hope 
I may be able to influence their lives.” 

“I have no doubt whatever of it. They have 
been forsaken of all men too long. You can teach 
them how to better their material condition, at 
the same time that you labor for their moral amend- 
ment.” 

“But how am I to live meanwhile.^ No religious 
body would send me as their representative. I am 
not religious in their way I fear — though I hope I 
am right at heart.” 

“I will send you as my representative. I have 
long wished that I could delegate to some one else 
my duties in this matter. I have no call whatever 
to labor personally with the people. I am entirely 
unfitted for it, and it is all very distasteful to me. 
I have money enough. You go down there and go 
to work in your own way, and I will furnish you 
all the money you need to live upon. You must 


198 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


live comfortably too, and feel that you are earning 
a regular salary for definite work, and are under 
no sort of obligations to me, for giving you the 
opportunity. I do it to ease my own conscience,’’ 
he concluded, laughing. 

“You have made me a most magnanimous offer, 
Mr. Webster. I don’t know whether or not I dare 
to accept it. You make things too easy for me. I 
shall be spoiled, I fear.” 

“I have no such fear. You will do a needed 
work and do it in my way — which is your own.” 

“I have never known what your religious opinions 
were, Mr. Webster, but I have known since the day 
you first befriended me, that you were a Christian, 
of the Good Samaritan order, which it seems to 
me was the kind Jesus tried to make.” 

“If I have a creed, I think it is nearer to that 
expressed by Browning than that of the thirty- 
nine articles. Do you know the verse — 

“It’s wiser being good than bad; 

It’s safer being meek than fierce; 

It’s fitter being sane than mad, 

My own hope is, a sun will pierce 
The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; 

That after Last returns the First, 

Though a wide compass round be fetched. ” 

“I have never heard that. But it is a pretty 
good creed, especially the first line, ‘it’s wiser be- 
ing good than bad. ’ I shall preach that. If I can 
convince my hearers that righteousness is the only 
wisdom, both for this life and for that that is to 


QUESTION AND ANSJVER 


199 


come, I shall do well, certainly. If I can get them 
to thinking that they must get a start here, in 
virtue and intelligence, unless they expect to en- 
ter the next world, with little stunted, distorted, 
souls, that would find heaven irksome, and create 
a hell for themselves, of discontent, and strange- 
ness among souls of a higher state of development, 
that -also will be well. But can I rouse them 
sufficiently to get them to care at all for their souls 
in present or future.? Can I even get them to 
know they have souls.?’^ 

“With some, even that will be a hopeless task, 
I fear. Browning says again, ‘doubtless the soul 
is immortal — if a soul be discerned.’ You will not 
be able to discern it in many of these you will 
meet — but there is a more numerous class who 
will, I think, respond to any plain practical instruc- 
tion you can give them as regards life and its 
duties, the soul and its possibilities. They need 
the consolations of love and trust so sorely, that 
I cannot but feel that they will respond to any 
teaching which will place these in the foreground. 
There must be a gospel for these poor souls some- 
where, which they will accept, and which will profit 
them.” 

“Yes. The real gospel of Jesus at first hand — 
the life he led, the deeds he did, the precepts he 


200 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


Jeft, his compassion for humanity, the whole 
spirit of his life and teachings — these must be 
sufficient to reach them — if anything can, and bring 
them up out of their degradation, and comJort 
them in their sorrows. If only I can make them 
feel these things, as God knows I want to do.’^ 

“You can, you will, feeling as you do — you can 
not fail. It is not in the nature of things. Real 
love must have its way. But mere perfunctory 
preaching will not be even tolerated by those with 
whom you will deal.’^ 

“But I shall not preach that way. I shall say 
no word that I do not mean, no word that I think 
God would not approve — want me to say. I shall 
test everything by that.” 

“You will find helpers in the college women who 
have settled down there. You will secure their 
co-operation through Miss Armstrong, no doubt.” 

“Yes, I shall depend upon them for the first 
start. What a noble purpose those women have. 
Miss Armstrong is a constant inspiration. Have 
you ever known so noble a woman before, Mr. 
Webster.?” 

“No, I do not think that I have. She is reach- 
ing for higher things than any one else I have ever 
met.” 

“I always associate you two in my thought of 


QUESTION AND ANSIVER 


201 


what is noble, Mr. Webster. Pardon me, but I 
have thought — '' 

“You are entirely mistaken. Savage,’’ interrupted 
Mr. Webster, “Miss Armstrong has hardly a friendly 
regard for me, even.” 

“Impossible, my dear friend. I am absolutely 
certain of her regard for you, and even—” 

“You are wrong, quite wrong. I have it from 
her own lips,” and Mr. Webster rose as if to close 
the interview. 

“I sincerely beg your pardon for alluding to her 
in that way. But I was so sure — and I wish you 
all good things, so truly,” faltered Richard, feeling 
sorely hurt by his ill-timed mention of one on 
whom his thoughts ran always” 

“You are pardoned before you ask — and do not 
think you must not speak to me of Miss Armstrong 
again. I shall wish to hear everything you can 
tell me of her — for I shall not be likely to see her 
again at present. Indeed I think I may go away 
for a time, and perhaps shall not see you again.” 

“I am sorry to hear that I shall wish your ad- 
vice often, and I shall miss my only friend.” 

His voice broke as he said this, and Mr. Web- 
ster was much touched by his emotion. 

“Oh I may not be gone long. I have no plans 
— in fact don’t even know that I shall go — or where. 


202 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


My mother is still in Europe — and I may join her, 
though I would rather go to a newer and stranger 
place.” 

They shook hands and parted, and Mr. Web- 
ster fell back at once into his old train of thought — ■ 
Victoria — had she shown him any favor — why had 
he not been able to win her — how he should man- 
age to adjust himself to this new view of life. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE TWO PORTRAITS 

“It will get soon so that a man will not dare to 
play with a kitten,’’ muttered Mr. Aubrey to him- 
self one morning as he sat in his “Palace of Art,” 
rather restless and bored with his own society. 
“I should like to see Armstrong — indeed I don’t 
know of anybody that I do want to see^ except 
Armstrong. But because there is a child there 
with a pretty face, and a warm little heart, who by 
some entirely unnatural possibility might fancy I 
come to see her, I am denied the society of my 
best friend, and dare only to go there once a week, 
to teach the child to draw. What preposterous 
folly these women will be guilty of — especially the 
superior ones. Hypatia has a vivid imagination — 
consequently there must be no more cakes and ale. 
Hypatia had better marry Apollo Chesterfield at 
once, then she will soon get over her romance. 
All women, not only in the spring but at all seasons 
of the year, ‘lightly turn to thoughts of love, ’ par- 
ticularly the Sapphos and Hypatias. I thought 
203 


204 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


I had got far beyond the time when the sweet in- 
nocents had to be guarded from my fascinations. 
Well, I am going to Klosterheim all the same, this 
morning, and I am going to get my sketch of 
Lizelle's head. Now or never, while mademoiselle 
is away. And I’ll get young Saint Bridget at the 
same time — so as not to seem particular. 

He whistled an air -from “Trovatore’^ as he 
started up, took his sketch-book — donned hat and 
coat, and started. His impatience to see Mr. Arm- 
strong seemed to increase every moment as he 
strode along over the hills. 

It was full winter now, the trees were bare, save 
here and there a frost-draped evergreen, with its 
circlet of brown cones, and a few oaks which still 
wore their leafy covering, bereft of all the warmth 
and glow which had made them pleasant to the 
eyes of man. One or two stray crows whirled in 
the upper air, or seemed painted upon the dull 
gray sky. The mossy knolls had a pinched look of 
winter greenness, and were, with the red berries 
of forlorn and frosted rose bushes, the only hints 
of summer coloring. 

Mr. Aubrey enjoyed all this dearth of color and 
of bloom, as a change from the carnival of nature, 
and even in his haste he noted everything as he 
passed. As he approached the bridge he saw Li- 


THE TIVO PORTRAITS 


205 


zelle and Kitty Barry, seated upon a log near the 
river engaged in throwing sticks and leaves upon 
its surface and watching them sail away. They 
looked like two children, and he regarded them as 
such. He gave a ringing Hello’’ and waved his 
hat at them as he approached. 

^‘Oh is it you, Mr. Aubrey,” cried Lizelle run- 
ning towards him, followed by Kitty Barry, who 
felt herself included in the salutation. 

“We all thought you were never coming again. 
Papa Armstrong said this morning he would as 
soon live in New Zealand if you deserted him, and 
mamma said he had better send a special invitation 
for you to come to dinner.” 

“I knew it. My prophetic soul told me — and 
so I started before the messenger got around. Did 
I cast my shadow before 

“Yes, I felt sure you would come to-day. I 
have felt so all the morning, and perhaps that is 
why Kitty and I started out. We didn’t really 
expect to meet you — but somehow we divined 
that you were hovering near.” 

“That was very good of you. Miss Barry. I 
hope you will always run out to meet me when I 
am in the air — or you feel me approaching,” he 
said, bowing low to Kitty and smiling mockingly. 

“I didn’t think nothing at all about ye, Mr. 


206 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


Aubrey, but just run out here to see if we couldn’t 
see a squirrel or a rabbit — or something or other 
worth seeing.” 

“Don’t be too cruel, Kitty — am I not worth see- 
ing.? See how my moustache has grown, and 
how long my hair is. I am almost a picture.” 

“Yes, you look like old Father Time in the 
almanac. I noticed it.” 

“Dear Kitty, do you hint that I look old.? I am 
in the first flush of youth, I assure you, and my 
heart is younger even than I — don’t crush it harshly 
with your scorn.” 

“Oh be entirely aisy about your heart. Don’t 
distress yerself about such a little thing,” and 
she ran fleetly over the bridge and up the broad 
walk to the house. She liked Mr. Aubrey at the 
same time that she was considerabl}^ afraid of him, 
but would generally run away from his raillery 
after a short skirmish. He turned to Lizelle who 
stood laughing by, and said: “And would you 
rather have seen a squirrel or a rabbit also, like 
our friend the flamingo.?” 

“No, indeed, I am very glad to see you, Mr. Au- 
biey. It’s rather lonely since Victoria went away 
— and Mr. Savage.” 

“Oh, yes. You mourn for Savage no doubt. 
You’re really quite pale. I didn’t know that Vul- 


THE TIVO PORTRAITS 


207 


can had made such an impression upon you. I 
thought you’d be rather glad to be rid of his moods 
— and tenses.” 

“I am delighted. But I have to study all the 
same, and we’re going to look up a governess. 
Do you think she will be quite as serious-minded 
as Mr. Savage.^ Or shall I be able to get her to 
tell me the answers instead of finding out for my- 
self 

^‘She will be much harder on you than Mr. 
Savage, I think. I had better make my sketch of 
you before you fall into her hands. You’ll be 
pale and wasted before I know it. Women are 
all fiercely conscientious. They stand by their duty 
or what they call so, till the last gasp. It is ap- 
palling. Be a little easy with yourself. Miss Lizelle, 
and don’t force yourself to do all the disagreeable 
things you can possibly think of. Martyrs are 
getting too common. They are no longer a treat. 
I have been making one of myself of late. But 
I’ve sworn off. The business is overdone and I’m 
not going into it. I will let the ruthless female 
sex have a monopoly of martyrdom, while I seek 
out the pleasantest places I can find, and go to 
heaven ‘on flowery beds of ease.’ Don’t you ap- 
prove of that, Perdita.^” 

“Yes I think so — but who is Perdita.^^” 


208 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


^^Get down your Shakspeare and read the 'Win- 
ter’s Tale,’ and find out. It will be more profit- 
able than some of the lessons Mr. Savage set you.’’ 

They were nearing the house now, and he said: 
‘‘1 am in earnest about making the sketch. After 
dinner I will tell Mr. Armstrong what I want, and 
he will excuse me. Will you sit for me.^”’ 

“Oh, yes, indeed. I shall like to see what you 
think I look like. Shall we have Kitty too.^” 

“Yes, if her royal highness will deign to come.” 

“Oh, Kitty will come if I coax her, and I shall 
so love to have a sketch of her. Even Victoria 
was amused over the idea.” 

“Miss Barry will be superb. I shall paint her 
for the Salon I think, but I shall bestow your 
portrait on Victoria to appease her.” 

“Appease her — do you think she will not like 
to have you sketch me.^ I would not allow it for 
the world if she did not approve,” cried Lizelle 
affrighted. 

“Don’t take me seriously, child. If there is 
one thing I dislike more than another it is being 
taken seriously. Here we are,” and he ran up the 
steps three at a time, and began shouting to Mr. 
Armstrong whom he saw approaching. “I thought 
I could enhance my value by staying away a while. 
You were all getting so you took me for granted. 


THE TIVO PORTRAITS 


209 


I won't be taken for granted, so I denied myself, 
and kept aloof. Now I’m sure of a royal wel- 
come.” 

‘^Indeed you are. We’ve missed you as we 
should have missed the morning mail — or the even- 
ing paper. Don’t run yourself up in our affections 
that way again,” said Mr. Armstrong shaking 
hands, and beaming with pleasure. 

“Why don’t you drop down upon me as of old.^ 
I am not going to do all the visiting, I assure you 
— though I am so fond of coming.” 

“I have been busy about the book, and a little 
blue I think. I miss Victoria, and Savage too. 
He was very stimulating. I should work much 
better with him around. He expects a good deal 
of you, and you hate to disappoint him,” he said 
laughing. 

“Hasn’t Webster been up to cheer you.^ I 
thought Webster was always here. He seemed to 
cross my orbit often enough.” 

“No, we have not seen him. I hear he is going 
abroad again — or off somewhere on a voyage.” 

“Has a change come o’er the spirit of his dream 
then.?” 

“I don’t know what it means. You were aware 
that he asked my permission to address Victoria.?” 

“No, though I could see plainly enough his wish 
>4 


210 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


in the matter. I fancied too that he would suc- 
ceed.’’ 

“So did I. In fact I heartily wished it. I know 
of no man so fitted for Victoria, as Webster.” 

“Yes it would be a good match, but she will 
have plenty of admirers. She has at least one 
other worshiper that I know of.” 

“Who, pray.^”’ 

“Savage.” 

“Savage.^” 

“Yes, man, are you blind not to know it.^” 

“You are surely mistaken. He is not the man to 
presume on such a thing.” 

“No, he is not. He’s a manly fellow, and hum- 
ble in his own eyes — but he couldn’t resist Fate 
in this matter. It was as natural as lying you see, 
Armstrong.” 

“I should say it was very unnatural— quite un- 
believable. You don’t think he’d dare — ” 

“No, I don’t think he will ever let any one. see 
if he can help it — for he knows well enough how 
she would take it, I suppose. But any one with a 
respectable vision can discover it for himself if 
they see him when she is by. The microscope has 
spoiled your sight, friend.” 

“You make me very uncomfortable. I am evi- 
dently getting old. You’re not here after anybody 


THE TfVO f^ORTR^ITS 211 

but me, are you?” he cried, laughing in glee at the 
thought. 

“Yes, Miss Barry. I am about to ask your 
permission to — draw her face in my sketch-book 
here.” Both laughed, and passed into the house. 

When Lizelle entered the parlor she brought her 
embroidery in her hand. Mrs. Armstrong had 
taught her to do beautiful work, and she had now 
excelled her teacher. As the work spread itself out 
on her lap, Mr. Aubrey came over to examine it. 
“What have we here, I wonder.^” 

“Oh, this is the naughty work I spend my time 
on, when I ought to be studying verbs. It’s much 
pleasanter than grammar, but when the governess 
comes I’m going to hide it and devote myself to 
my books — like a little angel,” she ended with a 
funny pout. 

“Angels don’t devote themselves to books when 
they don’t want to. Only women do that. A 
well-balanced angel respects her moods, and 
studies when she is inclined to study, and em- 
broiders the rest of the time. But I doubt if they 
do work like this. It is exquisite; really artistic.^ 
You’ve found your talent, and it’s a purely womanly 
one. I’m glad of it. I’m glad you haven’t got 
to save the world. I shouldn’t like to see you 
mounted on a barrel haranguing a crowd of voting 


212 


FENCING mTH SHADOJVS 


cattle, and urging them to vote for woman suffrage 
— home protection — or any other new-fangled 
crotchet of women, or idiots. Stick to your needle, 
and you’ll be pleasant to have in the house.” 

“But I don’t like to do useful sewing any more, 
since I began to embroider, and mamma is afraid 
I’m being spoiled, I tear.” 

“She would doubtless think you were being much 
improved if you sat for hours over the piano tiring 
your brain more than your back even, with unim- 
agined fingering, ‘shuffling off the hearer’s soul 
through hurricanes of notes to a noisy Tophet’ as 
Mrs. Browning writes. But to do delicate work 
with your hands that will please the eye instead 
of tormenting the ear — is waste of time. The 
world and I are out of joint, I think. I don’t ap- 
prove of it — nor it of me, I suppose. I hope not. 
I should hate to be a popular idol — it would bore 
me worse than — preaching.” 

“Or music.” 

“Music doesn’t bore me, when it is music. I’m 
passionately fond of it. But amateur attempts at 
music — the music of people who ought to cord 
wood or scrub pans, incites me to horrible crimes. 
I sometimes meditate whether it is best to seize 
the performer by the hair and hurl him out of the 
window, br throttle him and make his quietus so. 


THE TIVO PORTRAITS 


213 


You’ve never heard any good music, except the 
birds, Lizelle, but I suspect you have a capacity 
for it. I have myself, and that is why I cannot 
endure calmly what passes for music — in society.” 

He spoke the last word with a scorn that was 
infinite, but his eyes laughed all the time, and 
Lizelle knew that his railing was good-natured, and 
smiled quietly all the time. 

After dinner they retired to the library to make 
the sketches. Mrs. Armstrong came in with the 
rest and sat with her work by the window. Mr. 
Armstrong took up his book, and Kitty Barry 
stood in open-eyed wonder, the amusement of all. 
She was to sit first, and Lizelle and Mr. Aubrey 
were very much absorbed in placing her, and get- 
ting her to assume a proper pose. She had drawn 
her face down as most sitters for portraits do, un- 
til every trace of expression was blotted out, and 
sat solemnly staring at space. In vain Mr. Aubrey 
talked to her, stirring her upon all the subjects 
most likely to excite her, she sat like a Celtic 
Sphynx — blank — inscrutable. Mr. Aubrey drew a 
few outlines, and paused despairingly. Then he 
began once more: “Kitty, you ’re handsomer than 
usual to-day, but if you will excuse me, I should 
like to suggest that your expression is somewhat 
wooden. What are you thinking of, Kitty, that 
makes you so serious?” 


214 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


“I’m thinking of the wooden Indian in front of 
the cigar shop down below. He was the quietest 
and best mannered man I ever knew.^’ 

“And your admiration has led to imitation, as 
is natural. You have his exact expression. Im- 
agine him as getting excited and throwing his toma- 
hawk at me— for a moment — I should like to get 
you alive, you know.’^ 

Kitty’s face changed slightly in spite of herself, 
and Mr. Aubrey drew in a wrinkle or two. “I can 
take you after you’re dead you know, if I want 
still life,’^ he kept on, “but at present — 

“I’d loike to see you taking me after I’m dead,” 
she cried in a rage. “I’d rise right up in my coffin 
and fling the candles at your frowsy head.” 

She had forgotten herself at last, and Mr. Au- 
brey dashed in a few telling lines, ready to roar 
with laughter, but cautiously restraining himself, 
and talking on. 

“But Kitty, that would frighten me so. No 
well-bred corpse would be so violent. You 
wouldn’t haunt me.^” 

“Yes I would haunt ye for ever and ever, and 
spring at ye out of every dark corner.” 

This fancy pleased her so much that she smiled 
broadly and elevated her nose, which was the last 
touch necessary to complete the sketch, and Mr. 


THE TJVO PORTRAITS 


2l5 


Aubrey soon waved it triumphantl)^ over his head. 

‘‘Thanks, Kitty, you’re an admirable sitter, and 
you haven’t a face that needs to be hushed up 
among your friends — it would enliven a Quaker 
meeting — or a formal dinner party. 

She peered over his shoulder at the sketch, 
seemed immensely pleased with what she saw, and 
ran giggling from the room. 

Mrs Armstrong was called away'at this time, but 
promised to be back in time to see the finished 
sketch. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have as hard a time with 
me, as you did with Kitty,” said Lizelle as Mr. 
Aubrey placed her first in one position and then in 
another, and drew off to look at her. 

“I shall be satisfied if I succeed as well,” he 
answered gaily, taking her face between his hands 
and elevating the chin to the proper angle. 

“There, don’t stir now. Raise your eyelids and 
look at me.” 

She raised them for a moment — met his eyes — 
then they drooped involuntarily until the lashes 
swept the flushed cheek. A little wave of color 
swept over his own pale cheek, as he said softly: 
“Once more. Raise them just so as to see my 
eyes.” Slowly the lids were raised, and the exact 
expression which he wanted was caught on the up- 


216 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


turned face. He did not dare to speak, but 
sketched with the utmost haste, fearful of losing 
the loving tenderness, the rapt joy of the delicate 
mobile face. Mr. Armstrong turned to look just 
then, and thought that no face so exquisite had 
ever been drawn before. The artist was delighted 
with this success, and Mr. Armstrong praised it 
warmly. Lizelle sat silent by, longing to get away 
and cry — she knew not why. 

The sketch was a success — but the success was 
costly. Lizelle gave her child’s heart for it, and 
knew henceforth the sweet, sad joys of woman- 
hood. Mr. Aubrey did not linger long. He seemed 
ill at ease, and replied abstractedly to Mr. Arm- 
strong’s talk. As he was leaving he came up to 
Lizelle where she sat, holding out his hand, smil- 
ing, but saying nothing. She gave him her hand, 
also smiling, and saying simply: ‘‘Good-bye.’’ 


CHAPTER XX 


RICHARD AND HIS WORK 

Richard Savage was soon established in his new 
qaurters and began his work. He took a com- 
fortable room near the College Settlement, and 
furnished it in a plain substantial manner. Mr. 
Webster had seen him looking somewhat longingly 
he thought, at books in a second-hand book-store 
one day, and had forthwith bethought himself of 
a certain case of what he called “cast-off^' books, 
which stood in an ante-room of his office. They 
were the standard authors in the old bindings, as 
he had read them in his younger days. He had 
lately replaced them with fine editions, and had 
put the old ones by — hardly liking to part with 
them, and yet having no use for them. One 
morning when Richard was in the office Mr. 
Webster said: “By the way. Savage, there is a 
case of books in the ante-room for which I have 
no further use. It has occurred to me to send 
them down to help furnish your new rooms. 
Would you like them 

217 


218 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


^^How did you divine that the thing I miss most 
since leaving Klosterheim is the books? I have 
some leisure still, and I am lost without them, and 
feel as if I should fall back instead of making 
progress, if I don’t have books about me.’^ 

“I understand. Then I will send them down 
to-morrow, and hope you will enjoy them as much 
as I have. All the books I really care for, are 
there. If you read them, I think you will get the 
best there is to be had. I notice you have a good 
taste in books. I should not like to send mine 
where they would not be appreciated.^^ 

“You are more than kind. The ladies have lent 
me two or three. I think Miss Armstrong under- 
stands that I miss the library.’^ 

“Then you see the ladies,’^ said Mr. Webster in- 
terestedly. 

“Yes, every day so far; I have had to consult 
them about everything.” 

“And how is Miss Armstrong?” 

“She is very homesick, I think, and looks ill. I 
am afraid she cannot endure the life she has 
planned. I expect to see Mr. Armstrong take her 
home any day.” 

“I trust he will. She is not fitted for such hard- 
ships.” 

“But she has great fortitude. The others have 


RICHARD AND HIS IVORK 


219 


told me of some trying scenes she has passed 
through, and she has borne them bravely. But 
she is working too hard. They all see it, but she 
seems determined to persevere. They have started 
a kindergarten in a large room near by, and I am 
to talk to the fathers and mothers there to-night 
for the first time. We are going to talk over the 
matter of opening a coffee-house, among other 
things, to-night.” 

‘T suppose you would not like to have me come 
and hear you. 

‘‘Oh it is free to all,” Richard said laughing, 
“but Tm afraid you will not be much edified. I 
shall have to get down to simplicity itself to be 
understood at all. But my knowledge of the 
miner’s vocabulary will help me somewhat, I hope.” 

“Will the ladies dare to be out.^^” 

“Yes, they go everywhere down there, and are 
never molested at all.” 

“Well, if you won’t ask me to address the 
crowd I’ll come down.” 

“Perhaps we will ask you to address an up-town 
crowd in our behalf, some night.” 

“I am going away at once you know.” 

“Well, you will return some day, and the task 
will keep. We are permanent settlers down there 
you see.” 


220 


FENCING IVITH SHADOJVS 


Richard returned to his room, and sat thinking 
over what he should say to the people to-night. 
He pondered long and deeply, hoping to strike the 
right chord at last. With all his musings were 
mingled Victoria’s words. What she had said, 
he thought the highest wisdom. Every precious 
word he wore next his heart, and would not have 
parted with it for any costl}' gift. She had talked 
freely with him at all times because she thought 
she could learn much from him, and perhaps teach 
him some things. He counted over the rosary of 
her words as a penitent her beads every time he 
sat alone, and every thought was a benediction. 
He was a man of strong feelings which had never 
been touched before, and his passion grew upon 
him day by day. He never asked himself what 
she thought of him. Until Mr. Webster had un- 
deceived him, he felt sure that she would be the 
wife of his friend. Now he thought of her as a 
Sister of Charity who had wedded Christ. His 
own feeling he regarded as the desire of the moth 
for the star, and yet never blamed himself for this 
devotion to something afar from the sphere of our 
sorrow. Seeing her he could not have failed to 
love her, he reasoned. It would have been out of 
nature. He wondered how Mr. Webster could 
have borne a rebuff at her hands; he wondered 


RICHARD AND HIS IVORK 


221 


with all his strength why she had not loved that 
paragon among men, as. he esteemed him. Would 
he be able to forget her now, and grow reconciled 
through absence? 

He did not know that at that very moment Mr. 
Webster sat among his books trying vainly to in- 
terest himself in their contents and envying him 
heartily his daily sight of Victoria. That he paced 
the streets restlessly by night, and shut himself up 
by day, fearing to meet old friends who must be 
talked to, and to whom he could not talk. That 
all his old hopes, and plans of life, had lost their 
charm, and that he was unable to think of any- 
thing new which was to be hoped for or desired. 

He was restless all day and when evening came 
felt it a great relief to walk rapidly through the 
streets which would lead him to Richard’s meet- 
ing place. It was significant to his mind that the 
meeting should not be held in a church — that there 
were no churches, or next to none, in this section 
of the city. Farther up where the population is 
much less dense, the churches are thickly set, and 
sparsely filled. Down where the great hordes of 
humanity huddle, and where there is the greatest 
possible need of their* helpful ministrations, they 
are few, and poor, and very badly manned as a 
rule. All the talent, all the eloquence, all the 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


popular graces, are up-town where the fortunate 
gather. Down here where the voices of angels are 
needed, they have to take what is sent from the 
churches which support the missions, and they are 
the cheapest men who can be found usually. Mr. 
Webster thought of the enormous waste that the 
building of these costly churches which were only 
used for a few hours in a week involved, and won- 
dered what the business men who had built them 
and who supported them would think of such an 
investment in any other department of work He 
wondered if they would ever break away from the 
tradition which shut a church up in this manner, 
all through the week — when it could be made so 
useful in the community, if properly built and prop- 
erly used. Christian workers must go elsewhere 
for nearly all their work. The temperance peo- 
ple must have a hall — the Christian Association a 
building of its own, the charity organization a head- 
quarters — the Humane Society an office, and a hun- 
dred other kindred oragnizations, all must hire ex- 
pensive rooms for their work — while these great 
and costly buildings stand empty and useless six 
days of the week. Even when any special effort 
is made to reach the unchurched population, it 
must be made in a theatre, or great hall, which 
is costly and wasteful, considering all these fine 
audience rooms which are standing empty. 


RICHARD AND HIS IVORK 


223 


Down where Richard was working, the very first 
need would be a room — a building indeed, in which 
should center the various helpful activities which 
he would try to inaugurate. Probably it would 
not do to call it a church, so out of accord are the 
masses of the poorer people with the church idea. 

While this train of thought was passing through 
his mind he had walked rapidly, and now found 
himself at the door of the room where the meeting 
was to be held. It was a large, bare room, which 
the women had decorated a little for the kinder- 
garten which met there. There were a few cheap 
pictures, and numbers of illuminated cards with 
texts and mottoes on them, hung upon the walls, 
cheap but pretty draperies at the windows, and 
wreaths of ground pine about the chandaliers. It 
was warm, and seemed very pleasant to the people 
assembled there, who had come from their cold 
and cheerless homes. 

Mr. Webster quietly took a back seat, and looked 
about for the friend he had come to see, for the 
meeting itself would scarcely have drawn him here 
in his present state of mind. He soon discovered 
Victoria, sitting a little apart, near a cabinet organ 
upon which one of the ladies was playing. Soon 
they began to sing the old familiar hymns, of his 
childhood, which produced a strange effect upon 


224 


FENCING IVITH SHADOJVS 


him. He had not heard them for years, and he 
would not have believed that they could move him 
so powerfully. They had a similar effect upon 
many of the men and women who were present. 
These had mostly gathered at the personal solici- 
tation of the ladies, who had gone to the homes of 
the kindergarten children, for that purpose. The 
women were in a large majority, but a few of the 
better class of laboring men were here too. After 
a quarter of an hour of singing, Richard rose and 
asked all to join with him in prayer to their Father 
in heaven. Mr. Webster had never before heard 
such a prayer. It touched him to the quick. 
Richard seemed to be the mouth-piece of these 
poor people, stating their needs to a loving Father. 
No class here represented was forgotten. The 
father who, was struggling with bitter poverty and 
could hardly keep a shelter over his children’s 
heads, told God about it, and begged Him to help 
in his terrible need. The mother who was wearied 
out, and fretted with the care of children, and all 
the anxious work and worry of her daily life, made 
known her weakness and her need. The woman 
who was tempted to take up with an easier life as 
the price of sin, cried unto God to deliver her; the 
woman who had steeped herself in sin already, and 
eaten its poison fruit, begged for /forgiveness and 


RICHARD AND HIS IVORK 


225 


help; the homeless boy, and the outcast girl, cried 
out for some power to save, the little children 
asked to be led by his hand. It was all so simple, 
so real, so precisely what these people might say, 
could they find utterance, that every heart was 
touched. Mr. Webster noticed that Victoria was 
weeping softly, and his own eyes were moist with 
unaccustomed tears. There was perfect stillness 
in the room, broken oply by a woman’s sob here 
and there. After the prayer was said, there was 
singing once more, and then Richard read a few 
verses from the Bible and began to talk. There 
was nothing like the usual sermon about it. He 
began in a low voice to tell them that he did not 
come to them as an outsider to try and meddle 
with their lives. They would have little patience 
with him if he did that, because they would not 
think he knew what he was talking about. He 
was one of them, as poor as they, for but by the 
kindness of a friend he could not come to speak 
to them, or labor for them — but must work as 
they worked, each day for his daily bread. He 
knew the kind of lives they led, how hard they 
were, how little of brightness in them, how keen 
the pressure of want, how terrible sickness, how 
cruel death. Then he went on to tell them of the 
miners he bad worked with, and how hard their life 


22G 


FENCING IVITH SHADOJVS 


was in a different way. He told many touching 
incidents of life among them. Then he told of 
his father and mother, of their poverty, their hard 
work, their endurance and their virtue. He told 
how they had reared him, in strictest integrity, in 
intelligence, in virtue. And he went on to show 
how his hearers in similar poverty and stress of 
toil could lead lives which would honor God, and 
be a beautiful inheritance to their children. He 
spoke of the children as they now were, thronging 
the streets, learning all evil, and asked each parent 
if he were sure he was doing the best he could for 
them. On each mother he urged the duty of 
guarding her girls, of teaching them the lessons of 
purity,' and the necessity of industry, and of trying 
to inspire within them a desire for a virtuous and 
useful life. He was himself much affected as he 
went on, and many in the audience were weeping. 
They felt his sympathetic touch. The words were 
the plainest he could think of, the substance 
commonplace — but the spirit was that of brotherly' 
love, and they recognized it. In closing he spoke 
of their need of help — of how eagerly they would 
embrace any offers of human assistance in the 
days of their extremity, and recalled to them the 
God who is able to do for us exceeding abund- 
antly. He feafed many had forgotten the fact 


RICHARD AND HIS IVORK 


227 


that they had this source of help and healing — 
that God alone could help them in their uttermost 
straits. 

After the final hymn, he explained to them some 
of the new measures he and the women who were 
their friends, had in contemplation for their help, 
and the meeting was dismissed. Many of the peo- 
ple lingered to speak a word to Richard, and he 
was greatly touched by what they said. 

“This is like heaven, sir,’’ one of the women 
said. “I haven’t been inside a church for ten 
years — most of them are no good to us — but your 
preaching went to the heart. I shall be kinder to 
my man, and not so hard on the children, as long 
as it lasts.” 

“I thought that I hated ministers,” said another, 
“they tell ye to do so many things you know you 
can’t do, and they talk so far away from a body — 
but I could sit all night to hear ye speak so sweetly, 
God bless ye.” 

“Oh sir, I wish you would talk to our Tom,” 
said still another. “He’s gone wrong, sir, and is 
half his time drunk, and the rest in the Bridewell; 
oh but you might help him, sir, wid ye’r talk.” 

“We’ll try and help the ' coffee-house along,” 
said one man. “If we would spend our evenings 
there, and keep away from drink we’d be all 
right, sir, poor as we are.” 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


22 ?^ 

“Come and see my old mother, sir,’’ said another, 
“she is bed-ridden and a’most ninety, and would 
like to see a Christian powerful well. She is the 
only one of us who is really good.” 

Mr. Webster had approached the group of ladies 
and was talking earnestly with them when Richard 
was at last left alone. They all passed out of the 
room together. But as they stepped into the 
outer air Richard suddenly reeled and fell, struck 
down by a blow which a ruffian had dealt him from 
the side. Some half-drunken fellows had been 
sent out from a neighboring saloon to frighten this 
preacher away, who was coming down here to in- 
terfere with their business, with his coffee-house 
scheme. Three or four others were at the back 
of the first. In an instant Richard was on his feet, 
and when the fellow approached him again menac- 
ingly, hit him a blow which landed hm at the feet 
of his comrades. Another who pressed forward 
followed him, before Mr. Webster could reach 
Richard’s side. They jumped up, and the four 
came on together. If Richard had strength and 
courage, Mr. Webster had science and clear grit, 
and the two were easily enough for the four saloon 
strikers, and soon had them piled in a heap at 
their feet. By this time some of the men in the 
congregation gathered around, and when the 


RICHARD AND HIS IVORK 229 

roughs saw they were out-numbered, they slunk 
away. The women were much frightened, but 
when they found nobody was hurt, could not help 
laughing at the peculiar case of the preacher who 
has to fight his way out of his church. Richard 
laughed at first with them, but looked very grave 
when he saw Victoria’s white face, and proposed 
to hasten home as soon as possible. She took 
Richard’s arm when he insisted upon it, though 
asserting that she could walk quite well without 
it, and Mr. Webster followed with the other ladies. 
They had grown somewhat accustomed to the 
rough neighborhood, and were not as much terri- 
fied as Victoria, though they were very sorry that 
Richard should have aroused the antagonism of 
the saloon men at the outset. Mr. Webster de- 
plored this also, but well knew that any serious 
effort to better the condition of the poorer classes 
must meet with this antagonism. He only hoped 
that it might not develop to a dangerous degree 
in this case, as it had in many others; and that 
Richard might make friends enough to secure his 
personal safety. 

That the saloons would hesitate at nothing, he 
well knew, murder itself being one of their com- 
mon methods of putting down interference with 
their business. Perhaps Richard had been a little 


280 


FENCING WITH SHADOWS 


premature in his announcement of the coffee-house 
plan. It might have been better to wait for that, 
for a while, until his influence had become assured. 
But it seemed to be one of the first necessities. If 
Richard was going to ask these poor men to stay 
away from the drinking places, he must have some 
substitute for what the saloons stand for. The 
free lounging place, the light, the warmth, the 
company, must be furnished somewhere else. 

This, Mr. Webster and Richard discussed as they 
walked up-town together. Richard attributed his 
excitement to the attack of the roughs, but his 
thoughts were not upon that, as he walked home 
alone after bidding Mr. Webster good-night. 

They were upon Victoria. How beautiful and 
how fragile she had looked. The bounding health 
in which he had first seen her, seemed gone. 
She was much thinner, and paler, whereas she 
had once had the color of the wild rose. 

He could hear her voice still as she sang the old 
hymns. It was sweet and strong and flexible, and 
its echo seemed to meet him everywhere as he 
walked along the silent streets. 


CHAPTER XXI 


VICTORIA IN THE GREAT STORM 

A few da3^s after the events last described Vic- 
toria had gone on an exploring expedition into an 
unfamiliar part of lower New York, searching for 
statistics regarding various industries of that 
quarter. She had a well-defined plan by this 
time, of what her first work should be. She had 
kept a note-book ever since she came into the city, 
in which she wrote all cases of peculiar destitution 
which came within her knowledge, and as far as 
possible the causes which led to the suffering. She 
determined to know more of the wages of the 
workers, particularly of the women, than she had 
ever been able to find out, also of the rents paid 
for the miserable tenements they lived in — the con- 
dition of those tenements, and everything connected 
with the lives led there. At the same time she 
compiled the statistics of child labor, and the num- 
ber of unemployed men in the sections she visited. 
This was a most laborious undertaking, but she 
felt that it was most important to know these 
231 


232 FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 

things as a basis for work, and she determined to 
furnish such statistics herself, to arouse if possible 
the public mind to the true situation of the poor in 
their midst, and to the necessity of more efficient 
agencies to help and further them in their narrow 
lives. 

She remembered her own ignorance of a few 
months before, and charitably hoped that many 
good people in this great metropolis shared it. 
She felt called upon to enlighten them. She hoped 
to arouse a few at least, to an interest which should 
be lasting. 

Richard Savage would help her in her investi- 
gations. Everywhere he went, he too took notes 
of the items she wished to report, feeling with her 
the importance of this contribution to the knowl- 
edge of the world. She passed every day now in her 
investigations. She spent hours with the women 
workers in factories and shops and stores. She 
saw how they worked and where, she found out 
what they were paid, and where they lived. She 
described in her note-book the exact conditions of 
life as she saw it wherever she went. Women 
poured all their troubles into her ears unasked. 
Proprietors were mostly gentlemanly, though she 
met with some who were coarse and brutal. She 
grew more and more absorbed in her labors day 


VICTORIA IN THE GREAT STORM 


233 


by day — her hours of work longer, and her per- 
sonal life of less account. 

In this absorption she had scarcely noticed that 
a severe storm had been raging all day. She had 
spent the most of the time in two or three large 
establishments, and it was not until she came out 
into the street to take her way home, that she be- 
came aware of the severity of the weather. 

The snow was falling in thick sheets, and the 
wind was blowing a gale. The sidewalks were 
already nearly impassible and the streets heaped 
with snow. Big drifts were forming here and 
there, and traffic came ^almost to a standstill. 
There were few people abroad, and few teams in 
the streets. They were already lighting up though 
it was hardly three o’clock. 

She made her way for a little distance hoping 
to reach the street car line, but her progress was 
very slow, in the teeth of the wind and she soon 
felt completely exhausted. The distance to the 
Settlement was not great, but her strength did not 
seem equal to the undertaking. She met two chil- 
dren set fast in the deep snow, and lost some 
minutes in relieving them, and setting them upon 
the doorstep of a house, instructing them to ring 
the bell and ask for shelter. But the streets were 
nearly deserted. Every one who had a shelter 
for his head seemed to have sought it. 


234 


FENCING JVITH SHADOJVS 


After an exhausting struggle she reached the 
street car track only to find that it was completely 
blocked, and no cars running. At this point she 
found many passengers who had left business at 
an earlier hour than usual, thinking it their last 
chance to catch a car for home. Gangs of men 
were shoveling at the drifts but the openings they 
made were almost immediately closed up by the 
whirling snow. Doors on the windward side were 
banked to the very top and all ingress 
and egress stopped. Around corners banks were 
already twenty feet high in places. She heard men 
say that the telegraph poles were all down, and 
the shipping in the harbor was suffering complete 
destruction. She heard them predicting fearful 
.loss of life as well as property. She grew frightened 
and nervous — afraid'to leave these people in whose 
presence was a sort of comfort, and knowing that 
every moment of delay lessened her chances of 
reaching home. At last she pressed on, and made 
pretty, good progress for a few moments in a com- 
paratively sheltered place. Then she found her- 
self unable to take another step. She was set in 
the deep compact snow, and there was not a soul 
wthin sight or call. She was suffering terribly 
from cold by this time, and began to despair of 
saving herself. From others she could have no 


VICTORIA Ih! THE GREAT STORM 


235 


reasonable hope. There was not a conveyance of 
any kind in sight. The street was as deserted as 
a desert — this great, populous, central street of 
the metropolis. She thought that her feet were 
freezing but she could not extricate them. She 
could only stand like a statue and see the snow 
pile up even higher about her, and feel the sting- 
ing wind in her face. The few moments she had 
been there seemed an interminable period. Then 
she saw a man coming toward her making, long 
strong. strides through the baffling snow. He would 
surely help her she thought, and she took courage 
once more. She watched his oncoming with such 
eagerness as only those know who feel that the 
issue is life or death. Even with his strength he 
made very slow progress. Sometimes she lost 
sight of him entirely in the dazzling glare of the 
icy sleet. Then he would emerge and make a few 
onward plunges. Fascinated with watching him 
she almost forgot her fear. But to her infinite 
dismay, when he was within a few rods of her he 
opened a door not yet blocked with snow and dis- 
appeared. She now gave herself up for lost. She 
should surely perish there in the cold street. No 
aid could reach her. She was doomed. 

When thus utterly bereft of hope, suddenly a 
man approached her from behind. She turned 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 

her head and saw Richard Savage. The revulsion 
of feeling was so complete that she nearly lost con- 
sciousness, but rallied when she heard his cheery 
voice in wondering exclamation. In a moment 
he was at her side trampling down the hard snow, 
as a giant might have done, and making a little 
clear space about her. Then bidding her follow 
him he dashed on through the drifts for some dis- 
tance. But she was too much exhausted to follow, 
and he turned quickly when he noticed it, took her 
in his arms as he would a child, and strode on. 
The buildings along here were mostly wholesale 
warehouses and closed for the day. could see 

no place where he could get shelter, for some dis- 
tance. He was strong but he could not perform 
miracles. He found it increasingly difficult to 
take a step. Victoria’s head had fallen upon his 
shoulder. He feared that she was dead. He had 
no idea how long she might have been exposed, 
and he tortured himself with believing the worst. 
After a long and terrible struggle, he saw a little 
shop at hand throwing out a welcoming light, and 
to its door he staggered more dead than alive, and 
knowing not the fate of his precious burden. 
Completely e^chausted, he was taken in, and cared 
for, by kind stranger hands, and in a few moments 
was himself again. Victoria had been taken to an 


VICTORIA IN THE GREAT STORM 


237 


inner room and laid upon a couch. She seemed 
conscious but bewildered, and an examination 
showed that she was not frozen as they had feared, 
but only overcome by cold and the cruel exertions 
of the day. Warm drinks were produced and 
after partaking of them she soon recovered, 
and was able to talk to Richard about what had 
occurred. He had called at the Settlement a 
couple of hours before, and upon being told where 
Victoria was, he had started out to assist her in 
getting home — for he realized the danger she might 
be in. He found out at the last establishment she 
had visited, that she had started to go home, and 
so followed her. He had arrived just in time. 
Scarcely any possibility of other help remained. 
She thanked him with tearful gratitude for his 
kindness, and her words were very sweet in his 
ears. The depth of gratitude in his own heart for 
her safety could not be measured in words. Their 
place of shelter was a little German shop, with a 
dwelling for the family in the rear, and here they 
were made comfortable for the night. It was not 
until late the next day that they were able to 
reach the Settlement, where her friends had been 
in an agony of suspense over Victoria’s fate. 

On the first train which came in from Kloster- 
heim was Mr. Armstrong. He had hardly thought 


238 


FENCING JVITH SHADOlVS 


of the possibility of Victoria being exposed to the 
storm, but he had been anxious to know just how 
she was, and came to see for himself. He was 
greatly excited over the account of her adventure, 
and insisted upon taking her home with him that 
afternoon. She made no objections to this ar- 
rangement, for the excitement and exposure had 
left her weak and nervous, and she felt that she 
must take a thorough rest before she could under- 
take any further work. That evening found her 
back in the dear home nest, resting against her 
mother’s heart and feeling the old sense of comfort 
and contentment there. She wished that she dared 
remain here always — that she need never go out 
again into the hardships of the work-a-day world 
— or know any more of its suffering or its crime. 
She would like to linger in the army of reserves — 
but instead of that, she felt herself, as all great 
souls do, in this world, 

“Summoned a solitary man, 

From the safe glad rear, to the terrible van, ” 

and she could not be unmindful of the divine call 
— for she felt it such — to labor and to suffer that 
others might gain somewhat from her life. 

That sacred summons which led Dorothy Dix 
out from a quiet life, in pain and weakness, to 
buffet for a lifetime with the opposition and the 
indifference of the world — in the cause of a help- 


VICTORIA IN THE GREAT STORM 


239 


less class; that call which took Florence Nightin- 
gale to the Crimea, and Clara Barton to the battle- 
field, and Sister Rose Gertrude to the island of the 
lepers, had sounded in her ears; and while it might 
be right for others to sit peacefully at home, and 
breathe the air of serenity, for her it was wrong, 
impossible, until she had done some work worthy 
of her powers and opportunities. 


CHAPTER XXII 


CONFIDENCES AND REVELATIONS 

The first evening after Victoria's return home, 
she was sitting with Lizelle before a cheerful fire 
in her own room, just before the time for retiring. 
The room was so attractive and comfortable to her 
after her recent experiences, that she enjoyed 
vastly the mere physical comfort of it, while it was 
delightful to have Lizelle with her once more, and 
to feel the sweet security of home. But in spite of 
all this, she was very sad, in fact she had been 
sad ever since her arrival, and all had noticed the 
change in her spirits. She had made a great effort 
to throw off her depression, and had partially suc- 
ceeded, but that she was heavy at heart was appar- 
ent to all. 

Lizelle clung to her as a child to its mother, 
overjoyed at having her back, and waiting upon 
her with the most assiduous devotion, while father 
and mother with grave interest watched her changed 
mood and pondered it in their hearts. The girls 
had been talking of many things, but Victoria had 
240 


CONFIDENCES AND REVELATIONS 


241 


been surprised to hear nd^ mention of Mr. Aubrey 
from Lizelle all day. So she spoke of him at last 
herself. “And how is Mr. Aubrey, dear.?” 

“Oh, he is perfectly lovely, of course,” said Li- 
zelle laughing and blushing, “you know he would 
not be himself otherwise.” 

“And do you see much of him this winter.?” 

“Not as much as last fall. In fact he only 
comes once a week, to give me my lesson, and he 
scarcely stays at all now, but hurries off as soon 
as we are through. He is very busy working up 
his summer sketches, he says.” 

“And you miss him a good deal I suppose.” 

“Oh, yes, we miss him almost as much as we do 
3^ou. But he has made a sketch of me — and of 
Kitty Barry.” 

“Oh indeed! And is it a success.?” 

“He hasn’t let us see it yet — except just the 
first rough draft, but he says it is perfect — that is 
Kitty’s. He hasn’t said much about mine.” 

“He will surprise you with it some day no doubt.” 

“I don’t know. I think he has grown tired of 
me. He doesn’t treat me at all as he did at first. 
I don’t enjoy having him come any more,” and 
she laid her head on Victoria’s lap and began to 
cry softly. 

Victoria was much moved. She had dimly fore- 

i6 


242 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


seen trouble for Lizelle out of this warm and im- 
pulsive liking for Mr. Aubrey — but she had hoped 
that the words of warning she had given both, 
would put them upon their guard, and perhaps 
stay any threatened danger. 

She had evidently been mistaken. She stroked 
Lizelle’s hair and kissed her forehead, saying: 
‘‘Why not, little sister, isn’t he as friendly as 
ever 

“Oh, he is very dignified now, and not a bit as he 
was before,” crying harder than ever, as she said it. 

“Before what.^” 

“Before he made the sketch. I’m sure I don’t 
know what I could have done, but he has not been 
the same since, and I feel so very, very dreadful, 
Victoria — you don’t know.” 

“Do you care so much for him then, little one.^” 

“Oh, yes, I care, I care. I don’t even want to 
live if he doesn’t love me any more.” 

“Any more, Lizelle — do you think that he did 
love you at first.^” 

“Oh, yes, I thought so. I was sure of it because 
he was always so kind and so — ” 

“So what, dear.^^” 

“Oh, I can’t tell. But I was so fond of him, and 
he seemed to feel just the same as I did — and of 
gours^ I thought h§ iQv^d 


f 


CONFIDENCES AND REVELATIONS 243 

“And why do you doubt it now?” 

“I can’t tell that either. But he is not the 
same, and I suppose he is just tired of me. I’m 
such a silly little thing you know, of course he 
couldn’t keep on loving me, nobody ought to ex- 
pect it.” 

“I think you must imagine a good deal of this, 
dear. Perhaps he is absorbed in his work as he 
says.” 

“Oh no, no. I wouldn’t care if he didn’t come 
at all — 'that is I wouldn’t care much — if I could 
help it — if he was the same. But he is just as cool 
and serious now as — Mr. Webster, and never pets 
me at all — or says any nice things to me any more.” 

Victoria could not comfort her except by her 
love, and so let her cry on quietly until she was 
exhausted, and then tried to talk to her a little 
about remembering her other blessings and the 
friends who loved her, and about love not being 
all there was of life. 

“I know, I knaw— but I cannot live if he does 
not love me,” she would repeat. 

“Yes, dear, you can live. Others live their lives 
long without love. You can, but it will be hard, 
and I pity you with all my heart, darling.” 

“But you, Victoria — do you know how it is — 
how hard?” 


244 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


“Yes, dear, I know/^ 

Suddenly she broke down, and mingled her tears 
with those of Lizelle. In an instant Lizelle grew 
calm, and began to try to comfort her friend with 
kisses and caresses. “But, dear sister,’’ she said, 
“how can you suffer, surely you are loved as deeply 
as heart could wish. I am sure of it, Mr. Web- 
ster — ” 

“Do not mention Mr. Webster, dear, I cannot 
bear it,” and she sobbed again. 

Lizelle was silent, overcome with sympathy, 
with astonishment, with pain. All her own grief 
was forgotten for the time, in the trouble of her 
friend. “But tell me — tell me,” she cried at last, 
“let me know about what troubles you. I cannot 
bear not to know. Are you really not going to 
marry Mr. Webster.^ I was so sure you would.” 

“No dear, I shall never marry Mr. Webster.” 

“But do you not love him, dear, dear sister 
kissing her again. 

“Yes dear, I love him.” 

“And he loves you, I am sure” 

“He says so.” 

“And he has asked you to be his wife — mamma 
told me.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you have refused him.^” 


CONFIDENCES AND REFELATIONS 


245 


“Yes.^^ 

“Then my dear, darling sister, you must tell me 
why/^ 

“Yes, I must tell you why, and mamma also I 
must tell. But no one else must ever know what 
I tell you, dear.” 

“Not if you wish it so.” 

“I shall have to tell you a little story — so that 
you may understand,” she said brokenly — and 
paused for some moments before she could begin. 

“There was a young girl living in the city, Li- 
zelle — something as you lived — only she was not 
as poor as you — but she was as friendless, almost 
— that is she had no farnily of her own, and lived 
entirely alone in a room as you did. She worked 
in a store, and knew a good many other girls, and 
used to go about with them in the evenings, and 
on Sundays and holidays — though she did not make 
very intimate friends of any of them. She was 
superior to the most of them in beauty, and in edu- 
cation. She had been well brought up, but was 
an orphan and obliged to earn her living as best 
she could. She was always very careful of her be- 
havior and chose the best associates she could in 
her way of life. She was very beautiful, very* 
affectionate, and very impulsive. One evening 
when she was out with some of her friends, she 


246 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


was introduced to a gentleman who was so entirely 
different from any of her usual companions that 
she knew at once that he was of a different station 
in life. But instead of being afraid of him on that 
account and avoiding him, she was greatly pleased 
with his manner and address, and probably showed 
him that pleasure. He devoted himself to her 
that evening and afterwards. She was much flat- 
tered by this, and in a short time she was violently 
in love with the stranger.” 

•‘Oh, I should have thought she would have 
known,” interrupted Lizelle. 

^‘She was not very wise — she was very young 
you see — and she was too much infatuated to have 
her better judgment about her. She began to care 
for nothing but her new lover, for he was a lover, 
and wooed her in every way that a woman loves. 
He was handsome, elegant — and perfectly devoted. 
What else could a girl demand.^ She was weak 
and he was strong, and he soon took advantage of 
her weakness and of her love — and then he de- 
serted her — and left her to starve or worse — in the 
streets of New York.” 

“Impossible.” 

• “It is true. You remember the girl that Richard 
Savage saved from drowning.? That was she. 
She was so desperate she determined to die, and 


CONFIDENCES AND REVELATIONS 


247 


I have been sorry since I have known her, that she 
was rescued from that terrible death. It is so 
much worse as it is.’’ 

‘‘You know her, Victoria 

“Yes, I know her and her babe — the sweetest 
child that ever drew a breath. 

“And that man — ” 

“Was Mr. Wirt Webster — my friend — the man I 
loved — who wished to marry me.” 

The scorn and passion in her voice was superb, 
her attitude that of an avenging angel, as she said 
it. All tears were over now. She had grown 
calm and hard, as she told the whole pitiful tale, 
sparing herself no detail — wringing out the last 
drop, to justify her anger and her scorn. 

“But you cannot love him now,” Lizelle faltered. 

“Yes, I do love him now, and that is why I suffer 
so. I try to hate him as he deserves, and I cannot. 
I love him as Violet Lee loved him — despite rea- 
son. I tell over and over to myself all his base- 
ness, all his deception and crime, hoping to hate 
him after — but one sight of his face wipes it all 
out, and I love him, spite of all. But I shall be 
able to conquer at last. No sane woman can con- 
tinue to love one so unworthy. I shall soon 
despise him as he deserves — indeed I think I do 
that now — but I shall surely, surely, cease to love 
him — soon.” 


248 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


She threw herself back in her chair with closed 
eyes, pale as death. 

Lizelle was utterly overcome with astonishment, 
with sorrow, with fright. Was the world so bad 
then? Did men like Mr. Webster do such devil- 
ish deeds? Was no one good? Could you trust 
your best friend, or could you not? She was be- 
wildered and lost, in this new maze of unknown 
realities. She did not speak. She had even ceased 
to caress her friend. This was a sorrow which 
could not be comforted even by love. This was 
that black despair — of which she had heard, but 
of which she had had no experience. In this 
supreme sorrow all else was buried. 

At last Victoria roused herself and said: 
have told this to you, dear — for I must tell some 
one or die. I cannot tell even my mother yet. 
Such sorrow as it must cause her may well wait. 
Perhaps she will never need to know it all. I can- 
not say yet as to that. But just now, you and I 
must keep the terrible secret between us. And we 
will not talk about it any more. We will just 
bury it in our hearts. I am sorry to have to distress 
you so, sweet, but I could not live any longer with- 
out speaking it out to some one.^’ 

Then they parted for the night, and in the morn- 
ing met just as usual with the consciousness of this 


CONFIDENCES AND REVELATIONS 


249 


terrible thing between them. In the course of the 
day Mr. Armstrong received a letter from Mr Web- 
ster saying that he started that night for San Fran- 
cisco, and after a short stay in California should 
embark on a voyage. He didn’t know just where 
he should go or how long he should stay, but he 
was going to drift about for a time, feeling the need 
of a complete change. There was an implied ques- 
tioning in Mr. Armstrong’s talk with Victoria about 
the letter, and she had said to him at last: “I 
will tell you all about it sometime, papa, but not 
just, now please.’’ and he had kissed her and 
dropped the subject. But he was greatly disap- 
pointed and grieved. He thought Victoria was 
making the mistake of her life. 

Victoria herself wandered about the house like 
a restless ghost. She tried to sit with her mother 
and get back to needlework once more, but it 
seemed the greatest possible waste of good and 
holy time. She took one book after another from 
the library shelves, and turned the leaves aim- 
lessly, but she had no mind to read — she could fix 
her thoughts on nothing. She struck the keys of 
the piano from time to time, but no music<came at 
her call. All the old pieces seemed full of dis- 
cords; mere reminiscences of a misty far-off life, 
lived somewhere in some diviner sphere, which she 


250 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


could neither forget, nor fully rememeber. Her 
thoughts turned continually to the past. Memory 
was her only solace. She dared not look forward. 
The future seemed only to unfold in dim perspec- 
tive new periods of pain. The life she had lived 
but a few brief weeks before seemed to her one of 
illimitable joy, the present a kind of nightmare 
horror, the future a mystery and a dread. 

Nobody could help her. Much as she loved her 
parents she could not go to them with her trouble. 
She even dreaded that they should suspect that 
she had a trouble. Speaking to Lizelle had brought 
no relief. She deeply regretted having done so, 
she could not bear that Lizelle should believe what 
she had told her. Putting it into words at all, 
seemed a cruel wrong to the man whom she loved. 


1 


CHAPTER XXIII 


LOOKING BACKWARD 

The “Palace of ArP’ was a veritable work-shop 
in these days. Often an idle man, seldom a per- 
sistent worker, Mr. Aubrey had turned over a new 
leaf he told his friends, and was really going in for 
art with all his soul. He brought out old sketches, 
and looked them over critically, he finished a num- 
ber of things he had long had in hand, and began 
one or two important new works. He scarcely left 
the studio, and admitted none but Mr. Armstrong 
within it. That gentleman had resumed his visits 
when Mr. Aubrey lessened his own, for he was 
quite lost at Klosterheim without his friend — par- 
ticularly since his book was finished and he had no 
real task before him. “I shall have to get to work 
again,’’ he said one morning to the artist, “if you 
are going to dig so, I must have an employment 
also. I hate to come here spoiling your mornings 
— but things in general cannot hold me — I must 
have a definite task.” 

“Don’t talk of spoiling my mornings. You sim- 
251 


252 


FENCING SHADOIVS 


ply help to fill them. I can do this drudgery of 
filling in, just as well with you talking to me, as if 
I were alone. And it is a deal pleasanter to have 
a human being within reach — if he is a rational 
human being like yourself. I can’t abide a fool 
any more than you can. Isn’t it a good thing we 
have each other.^^” and he laughed merrily over 
their mutual admiration. “Souls must have been 
made in pairs,’’ he continued, “and flung hit or 
miss into the world. It’s very rarely the right two 
get together, but when they do they supplement 
each other wonderfully. You and I were among 
the fortunate few who matched up properly. The 
man who hasn’t found his counterpart is an unfor- 
tunate fellow. He can’t get any real comradeship 
in the world.” 

“That would be sad indeed. Straying around 
alone in the universe would be a doleful affair 
surely. There is a great deal of loneliness in the 
world I fancy that men don’t take note of.” 

“Yes, I know of men and women who in the 
bosoms of their own families suffer acutely from it. 
There is a solitude no company can break. Many 
people live in it, some enjoy it, while others I think 
yearn after a kind of companionship they can 
never find. These solitary souls are much to be 
pitied, I think.” 


LOOKING BACKJVARD 


253 


“I believe I was one of them in my youth. I 
never felt at home in the world until I found my 
wife. The ease and comfort of living have all 
come to me through her. I was like a stranger in 
a new place. Since then I have lived among 
familiar things. You don’t know the comfort 
of it.” 

“I can imagine. I never knew any one but 
yourself to whom I could really talk. It has been 
a revelation to me to attain to freedom of speech. 
I was tongue-tied before.” 

“We do not always reveal ourselves fully even 
to those we love best. I fancy most married peo- 
ple who are really deeply attached to each other, 
have many reservations of thought. It is well it 
is so. Complete revelation would cause much 
needless distress. To know when to keep silence 
is great wisdom.” 

“But to an incorrigible spouting idiot like myself 
it is the most difficult of feats. Not with the mob 
— I’m not apt to give them my confidence — but 
it’s painfully hard to be repressed before those I 
love.” 

“What is the need.^” 

“Oh, the wisdom of silence you just spoke of.” 

“That may be carried too far no doubt.” 

“Yes — and not far enough.” 


254 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


Then he seized a sketch that was before him, 
and began to discourse about its points in an ab- 
sent-minded way, that told Mr Armstrong he had 
something on his mind which he wished to speak 
of, but of which he was not quite sure. He knew 
it would come out in time, and he did not care to 
hasten the revelation, so he turned away to other 
subjects, and then took his leave. 

After he was gone Mr. Aubrey sat brooding for 
some time. He turned impatiently away from 
the work he was engaged in, flung himself into a 
chair by a window and gazed absently out on the 
winter landscape. It stirred no enthusiasm in his 
soul. Beautiful as it usually seemed to him, to- 
day it only irritated. The misty mountain tops 
spoke a new language — the language of discon- 
tent. Their blanched and meager massiveness did 
not suit his mood. The masses of rolling clouds 
with their ghastly rents, and jagged angles, did 
not excite his admiration, the line of white mist 
above the river, with all its delicacy did not detain 
his vision, and the distorted and crabbed pines on 
the opposite bank, seemed more inharmonious 
than usual, though he hated them heartily at all 
times. His thoughts were far away. 

Something had stirred up memories of his youth, 
and let the poets say what they will, youth is not 


LOOKING BACKIVARD 


255 


always pleasant, nor memories of it the passionate 
pastime of the soul. He thought of his home in 
the Puritan city by the sea, a home that was hard 
and unlovely, and destitute of all poetic charm. 
He remembered his father as a mere man of busi- 
ness, who came and went like a boarder, and who 
seemed to have no interest in, .or influence over his 
home. He was engaged in making money. It 
was the serious and solemn business of his life. 
All thought outside of that line seemed to him 
superfluous. Great questions agitated the people, 
great causes cried out for support, great new 
thoughts startled the people, and rent society in 
twain, but he gave no heed to any of these things. 
The mere getting of money seemed to him a suffi- 
cient reason for being, all labor and activity directed 
to that end laudable and satisafctory, and every- 
thing outside of that, folly or crime. 

All the days of his life had been given to this 
one end, and by the time his son’s recollections 
of him began, this course of life had absorbed all 
the warm blood of the man’s being, and he was a 
dry and juiceless mummy, wrapped in such swath- 
ings of worldliness, that it seemed impossible to 
the boy to reach his heart, even if the dried and 
withered remains of a heart were still there. 

The mother was a wpman as much absorbed in 


256 


■ FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


society as the father in business. From his earli- 
est infancy the boy had been intrusted to servants 
whom he hated and despised. Day after day he 
was subjected to that ignorant tyranny which so 
galled his high spirit. All sorts of unreasonable 
restraint was put upon him, all sorts of wicked and 
ruinous indulgence allowed as well, by those ig- 
norant and uninterested hirelings, who held for the 
time being his destiny in their hands. The sweet 
freedom of happy childhood had never allowed of 
a natural expansion of his powers, the loving com- 
panionship of other children he had never known, 
for he was the only child of this unnatural home. 

A dreamy-eyed poetic child, full of yearning 
after love and beauty, he lived for years in this at- 
mosphere of dearth and dust, eating his own 
heart. From some ancestor of whom he had 
never heard, he had received his endowment in 
life. A poetic imagination, a warm heart, an im- 
perious will, a passionate love of beauty, a scorn 
of everything sordid or worldly. This endowment 
however it had come, bad put him at variance with 
the life into which he was born, had placed him 
in a perfectly natural antagonism to both his par- 
ents. If he had been loved by them as his nature 
demanded, and if he had learned to love them, as 
he would have done, had there been anything in 


LOOKING BACKIVARD 


257 


their behavior toward him to call out such love, it 
would still have been hard for him to have lived 
harmoniously with them. 

As it was it was maddening, unbearable. As he 
grew older and threw off the yoke of the servants, 
he began to live a life of solitude in the great house 
which was misnamed his home, but which was a 
mere spectral semblance of that sacred place. No- 
body interfered with him to any great extent. His 
mother must follow the endless round of social 
gayeties, must entertain and be entertained, must 
dress, and call, and travel, and shop, and keep up 
with the all important social gossip of the day, 
whatever became of the immortal soul entrusted 
to her keeping. This sort of thing to be well done, 
inevitably takes up a woman’s life. She is a hard 
worker if she performs all that is expected of her 
in her chosen walk. 

Few men in business or professional life give as 
many hours of the day to their labor, as she to hers. 
And it absorbs, not only her whole time, but her 
whole strength, her whole life. Home, and hus- 
band, and children get but the worthless frag- 
ments of her time. Her real life is lived apart 
from all these. The children of such women are 
orphaned in infancy, they never know the affluence 
and opulence of a mother’s love, they never 


% 


258 FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 

breathe in the divine afflatus of her tender, per- 
sonal care. It is almost the saddest thing that 
can befall a child. 

Arthur Aubrey felt this desolation of heart in 
the keenest manner. He hungered for affection, 
for appreciation, for encouragement, with a literal 
heart hunger. He was supplied with all that 
money could supply, but he was poor and needy 
still, and felt his own poverty and need as few 
children have ever done. In the midst of this 
heart hunger, he was thown suddenly under the in- 
fluence of a pure and beautiful womanhood. 

It was in his summer vacation during his first 
year at college. He had gone off with a college 
chum, to a little interior village, to spend the sea- 
son. No sooner had he arrived there, than he ^ 
found himself for the first time thrown into free 
and friendly intercourse with people of his own age. 
He met there beautiful and modest young girls 
with whom he could hold rational intercourse with- 
out the interference of chaperon or matchmaker. 
He had hated what his mother called society, so 
heartily that he had hardly a friend in the world, 
of the other sex, at the age of twenty. His mother 
had tried to bring certain so-called desirable girls 
to his notice, but he disliked them all for her sake, 
fearing that her ideas of life might be theirs also, 


4 ^ 


LOOKING BACKIVARD 


259 


and desiring no further knowledge of that side of 
womanly character. 

But he entered into this village society with en- 
thusiasm, and spent an enchanted summer in its 
little round of pleasures. Of course he fell in love 
at once with one of its maidens, the fairest and 
rarest of them all. Vesta Alger had delighted his 
artistic eye the first moment he had seen her face, 
and the charm grew upon him day by day, until 
soon he had no breath, no being but in hers. In 
that season of sweet sighs, the hours sped swiftly, 
and summer ran on apace. Almost before he knew 
whither he was drifting, he had kissed the smile 
which he had longed to win, and Vesta and he 
were plighted lovers. 

All the repressed affection of his heart he now 
lavished in riotous abandon upon his new found 
treasure. The stored-up wealth was infinite, and 
he cast it all at her feet. She in turn gave him her 
whole heart and life without reserve. She was one 
of those gentle, loving, trusting women, to whom 
love means all, whose life is made or marred by a 
first affection. Whatever word he said, she felt 
her soul prolong the tone. Whatever thought he 
uttered became at once her thought. She was lost 
in him, as the river in the sea. 

He had never known true life before, and now 


200 


FENCING JVITH SHADOIVS 


he drank it to intoxication. . Within the little cir- 
cle of those months he pressed the vintage of a 
lifetime, the wine of youth, and love, and joy 

Such days we have all known, and we all know 
how they end. In disillusion if both live — in de- 
spair if either die. The one sweet dream of Arthur 
Aubrey’s life lasted but a few brief months. He 
had hardly returned to his college duties, ambitious 
now, and anxious to succeed in life, when the sad 
news was brought him that Vesta Alger was at 
death’s door. He hastened to her side, so shocked 
that he hardly felt his pain. He clasped her 
in his arms, and breathed out his love once more, 
between his sobs and tears, pressed passionate 
kisses on lips that were already cold, and knew 
that she was dead. Youth, love, joy were dead 
too, he thought, and he passed out into the world 
a cynical and almost hopeless man. He gave up 
his college work and went abroad, where after a 
period of restless roaming to and fro, he settled 
down in Paris to study art, as he had long intended. 
After awhile he began to have a pleasure in his 
work, and to renew somewhat his interest in life. 

In his chosen work he was successful, in society 
much sought after, and spoiled by adulation. He 
remained abroad many years, in Paris, London, 
Rome — then back to New York — and after to the 


LOOKING BACKIVARD 


261 


^‘Palace of Art.” Here he was happier than ever 
before since his early experience of trouble, though 
he lived a life of almost complete solitude. In 
Mr. Armstrong he had found a congenial friend, 
and that seemed the one thing needful to render 
him at least contented with his lot. But this 
morning some old chord had been struck which 
jarred upon his being. He felt himself out of tune 
with the world. He seldom went back to the past 
now, and was angry at himself for having done so. 
The old sorrow had lost its grip, but to recall it 
was still a discomfort. Usually he banished the 
thought of it resolutely from h.is mind. And he 
would now, he determined, rising suddenly and 
putting on his hat and coat. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


FATE AND FAITH 

After a week’s rest Victoria went back again to 
her work. The severe exposure of her last day 
there, had apparently left no marks upon her fine 
constitution. She was strong and well and more 
eager than ever to do her chosen work. The happy 
can enjoy idleness; to the unhappy the hours need 
to be crowded with absorbing work. 

Victoria had always been a worker in some line. 
During the last summer she had enjoyed idle- 
ness for the first time. When she came to the 
city in the fall, she did so with real dread. She 
had fallen in love with an easy life. But now she 
was once more eager for work. And there was 
work enough at hand. Many times she worked all 
day at her own peculiar task, then spent the long 
evening in aiding her friends in some of their vari- 
ous activities. Often she went around to look 
after Violet Lee and the sweet child of whom she 
was so fond. She found the girl in various moods, 
but the babe was always sweet and beautiful in her 
262 


FATE AND FAITH 


263 


eyes. She had learned to know Victoria and al- 
ways greeted her with a smile. She never left her 
arms during the entire visit and would usually cry 
when Victoria arose to go. The mother had learned 
to depend upon Victoria for advice as to every 
move that she made. She saw literally no one 
else. She never went into the street, except when 
Victoria sent her out for a little air, while she 
tended the baby. Victoria brought her work to 
her and returned it. She brought also the pay, 
which she was careful to make enough for the 
needs of the woman, which were few indeed. 

Many times when she came she found Violet 
overcome with weeping, and the babe staring won- 
deringly at her from the cradle. The girl was be- 
ginning to get a little comfort from the child. She 
had not been very fond of it at first, but day by 
day it had grown nearer and dearer, until now her 
whole life seemed bound up in it. There was 
nothing else to hold her to life. In these long 
dreary winter nights, when many times sleep stood 
aloof with finger on her lips, and dropped upon her 
eyes no balm, she would have yielded herself en- 
tirely to despair, but for the pressure of the little 
head upon her arm, but for the feeling of the little 
hand upon her breast. However deep the woe, 
and it is very deep and constant, that dainty vel- 


264 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


vet touch, alleviates it somewhat, gives a reason 
for the continuance of the struggle which she would 
otherwise lack, and solaces somewhat her shame. 
For shame is the great factor in her misery. 

Proud spirited by nature, sensitive, ambitious 
too, of some of the prizes of life, she is goaded 
to desperation by the thought which never leaves 
her, that she has cast all fair chances away, has 
left no opening by which she may rise, has destoyed 
her own life, by a weakness which she scorns, by 
an infatuation which seems to her now, insane, by 
a sin which is unpardonable — in woman. 

She makes no excuse to herself for her folly — 
she does not plead her youth, her inexperience, 
her love, she sees in none of these any palliation 
of her fault. She treats herself as a wilful culprit, 
and deals out punishment with no relenting hand. 
She will hear no defense of herself from Victoria — 
no blame of her lover which she does not share. 
She will listen to no mention of any redress of h^r 
wrongs. “I want his love as I once had it — or I 
want nothing,’^ she would say. ^‘1 never allowed 
him to give me even the smallest gifts, in those 
days. Do you think that now, I would eat of his 
bounty.^ Unless he loves me as I love him, and 
acknowledges me before the world, I hope never 
to see his face or hear his voice again. She is 


FATE AND FAITH 


265 


not quite so hard and bitter in her woe now, as 
when Victoria found her, she has softened some- 
what under kindness, and under the spell of her 
mother love, but she shrinks morbidly still from 
any contact with the world, and hides herself per- 
sistently from any friend of her old days. “I have 
become used to you,’^ she would say to Victoria, 
“but it killed me to see you at first. I can never 
hurt myself that way again. I must live out my 
life here and let no one know.” 

Victoria always left her in the deepest gloom 
herself, and it took her many days to recover even 
her accustomed cheerfulness, which was not great 
at this period. Her friends remarked her sadness, 
and urged her to relinquish a work for which nature 
had not fitted her. But she strenuously refused to 
retire from the undertaking, and forced herself to 
assume a more cheerful demeanor before others. 
But all the while she was yearning for release. 
She almost hated the light of day which brought 
her back from sweet dreams of daisies upon daffled 
fields, and of soft streams flowing among green hills 
in innocent and indolent repose. She longed to 
go away somewhere alone, and rest, and ponder 
all these new aspects of life in quietude and calm. 

Perhaps she could reconcile herself even to the 
swarthiest face of things, could she look at them 


266 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


apart. But now she felt rebellious, turbulent, full 
of thoughts which led to chaos. This bitterest 
phase of life which human beings know, had been 
shown her in her sweet youth in all its hideous 
proportions, and that sweet youth was slain, and 
in its place had come a bitter and almost hopeless 
maturity. That loss could never be made good to 
her, whatever the future might bring forth. 

Almost the only comfort she had as the weeks 
wore on, were the meetings conducted by Richard 
Savage. She never allowed anything to keep her 
from attending them. It lifted her thoughts up, 
to hear one who had through much struggle and 
deadly doubt, ‘‘beat his music out” at last. When 
he spoke bravely and strongly to these poor souls, 
so sorely needing comfort, she felt herself the needi- 
est of them all, and tried to wring a blessing from 
his words. When he prayed in such simple homely 
fashion for the various needs of those before him, 
she poured forth her own greatest need in a cry 
for light. She asked to be led into that light, that 
faith, that trust, which should enable her to walk 
through this dark labyrinth of life seeing some star 
above. She could bear everything if only she were 
not blind. 

Richard through struggles hard as her own, as 
he had told her, had learned to trust “that some- 


FATE AND FAITH 


267 


how good will be the final goal of ill, ’’and she was 
wrestling earnestly for this blessing also. Now 
she could scarcely accept his simple teaching of 
God’s fatherhood, so irreconcilable with a belief 
in his loving care were all the hard things which 
she came upon in her daily work. These wretched 
children who swarmed in the alleys around, these 
starving mothers in attic rooms, these wives tor- 
tured through life by fiends in human shape, and 
foully murdered at last, these outcast women in 
their lowest hell of all, rose up before her when 
she tried to say that God is good, and stayed the 
words upon her lips. More than once she had 
tried to speak of such comfort to Violet Lee, and 
more than once the girl’s own sad case had forced 
her to refrain. Those people who have a genius for 
believing, never know what these doubting spirits 
go through in their search for stable ground to 
stand upon. Others cannot help them much. It 
is a single-handed combat which they wage, and 
they are defeated many more times than any of 
us would like to know. The common problem; 
yours, mine, everyone’s, will simply not come right 
by trying, in any of the ways known to us. The 
solution which others make may do for them, but 
God requires each of us to work it out for ourselves, 
and takes care that others “telling” shall not help 


268 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


US much. Whether we lead “a life of faith diversi- 
fied by doubt, or a life of doubt diversified by 
faith, we must carry on the skirmishing by our 
own methods, useing our own powers, and reach- 
ing the last conclusion in our own way. Whether 
that conclusion leads to power, peace, pleasant- 
ness, as the result of faith, or to dread, despair, 
defeat, as the final result of truimphant doubt, we 
must bear it as we can. 

We cannot say, I will believe, and by affirming 
do so, however much we feel that it may profit us 
to believe. Victoria’s doubt was less radical than 
that of some equally sincere and earnest souls. 
She never doubted of God, as the Almighty 
Creator of the universe — she had too sane a mind 
for that — but when she heard of that tender 
personal care which notes the flight and the fall of 
a sparrow, and feeds the young ravens when they 
cry, and knew from close observation that those 
of more worth than many sparrows are left de- 
fenseless in the struggle for existence, she doubted 
of the God which men affirm. In the great reign 
of universal law she could see how individual suffer- 
ing must result, but with a tender father bestow- 
ing individual attention upon each soul, and answer- 
ing his cries for help, she could not acount for all 
the wrong and injustice and dire misery which ex- 
isted throughout the world. 


FATE AND FAITH 


269 


Richard tried to persuade her to look upon life 
as a great whole — not to analyze it into parts — 
and so to see one part made complete by the entire 
effacement of another part, at times. He could 
see “on the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, 
a perfect round,” but she had not yet attained 
that wisdom. In some souls doubt is slow to clear, 
and it is only as life teaches them, that they learn 

“That years and days, the summer and the springs, 

Follow each other with unwaning powers. 

The grapes which dye the wine are richer far 
Through culture than the wild wealth of the rock; 

The suave plum then the savage-tasted drupe; 

The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet; 

The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers,” 

and to argue from this, that the universe tends up- 
ward, and that God is at its heart. When the 
questioning and rebellious soul has learned this, 
then it can soberly acquiesce — beat its bars no 
longer — but wait for the further light which will 
surely come, when eternity affirms what time 
seemingly denies, the tender and loving care of 
God. 


\ 


CHAPTER XXV 
man’s inhumanity to man 

Richard during this winter was organizing and 
cistablishing his new work. He labored inces- 
santly, and was much encouraged by the aspect of 
affairs. The coffee-house scheme was well on its 
feet. Mr. Webster had offered to stand security 
for the rent of the building they needed. The 
next thing was to find a suitable man to manage 
it. This was a difficult undertaking, any man 
with the necessary business capacity being likely 
to be able to do better for himself, than to run 
this establishment for what he could make out of 
it. But as usual the want produced the man. 
One who had long experience in running cheap 
restaurants had been so reduced by sickness and 
misfortune that he was unable to start anew for 
himself, and was glad to avail himself of the help 
which was offered him to embark in this new en- 
terprise. He was a man of spirit and resolution 
and not to be daunted by the opposition of the 
saloon-keepers of the neighborhood. His house 
270 


MAN^S INHUMANITY TO MAN 


271 


already had a large patronage and was paying its 
own expenses. This was much better than they 
had hoped as the result of the first season, and the 
enterprise was considered safe and permanent. 
A hall had been obtained in which were held meet- 
ings three evenings in a week. These meetings 
were well attended and much enjoyed by the class 
for whom they had been established. On the other 
evenings of the week various classes were taught 
here, and familiar lectures given on topics adapted 
to the needs of the people. On Sunday three 
services were held. Sometimes Richard procured 
helpers from the outside for these meetings, but 
more often he did the work alone. The people 
listened to him with much more interest than to 
any one he could get to assist him, and he felt 
that he could help them more than any one he had 
yet found. The ladies had organized a choir to lead 
the congregational singing, and the music was 
most inspiring. At the Settlement there were 
classes every evening for women, for girls, for 
boys, taught partly by the residents there, and 
partly by helpers from outside who had been in- 
terested in the work, and this work supplemented 
that of Richard in a manner which was invaluable. 
It was found in both undertakings that many peo-, 
pie were willing to help, if they could be told just 


272 


FENCING 1VITH SHADOIVS 


what to do. All the hours of the day Richard 
was busy in carrying forward the work he had 
started. He visited, and was visited in turn, by 
all who especially needed help or guidance. The 
people believed in him without reservation, and 
they brought everything to his notice. He re- 
dressed their wrongs, comforted their sorrows, ad- 
vised them in all the extremities of their lives, gave 
them freely of his knowledge, and held himself al- 
ways at their service. But outside the little circle 
of the more respectable poor which he had gathered 
about him, and through which he hoped to influ- 
ence somewhat those of still lower estate, there 
was violent opposition and hatred of one who 
proposed to work any changes in the existing order 
of things. He was scoffed at and derided in every 
saloon and brothel and gambling den within the 
circuit of his labors. 

He was insulted in the streets, hooted at by 
prostitutes and pimps, threatened by rowdies, 
and regarded as an enemy by great numbers who 
knew nothing of him personally, but had caught 
the talk of their class, and regarded him as an out- 
sider who was going to interfere with them in 
some way to his own advantage, and to the re- 
striction of their rights. This sort of talk had 
been going on in one of the saloons of the neigh- 


MAN^S INHUMANITY TO MAN 


273 


borhood one evening in the latter part of the win- 
ter, when one of the roughs who had been knocked 
down by Mr. Webster, or Richard himself, in the 
encounter some months previous, began swagger- 
ing about and asserting that it was high time this 
preacher should be “cleaned out.^^ 

His companions, who had already worried him 
a good deal about the matter, now jeered at him 
and asserted that he was well known to be afraid 
of the boxing parson, and dared him to whip him, 
or shut up his whining. The saloon-keeper en- 
couraged the trial, and offered a sum of money to 
the rowdy if the job was well done. The fellow 
had been drinking heavily, and was also very short 
of funds to supply the drink he craved, and he 
closed with the offer, at once, and agreed to do 
the business within three days. Richard was by 
this time entirely off his guard. For awhile he 
had feared some violence, but when nothing further 
had been done to injure him, he had grown con- 
fident, and had now given up all thought of the 
matter. He went about the streets at all hours 
of the night unarmed, if business or duty required 
it; often reproved some man or woman for cruelty 
to children, and even released the victim of their 
rage; he had interfered more than once to save 

the subject of some uncalled-for assault from the 

j8 


274 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS ‘ 


hands of ruffians, but he had met with no violence 
and feared none. At the time of these threats 
against him he often came home late from some 
meetings of workingmen in a distant part of the 
city. The fame of his preaching had gone abroad, 
and he now had more calls to speak than he could 
answer. He secured substitutes for his own con- 
gregation as frequently as he thought consistent 
with his duty to them, and tried to awaken a simi- 
lar interest in other sections of the great lower 
world of New York. In order still further to arouse 
attention he had begun to use his pen. He was 
an able and strong writer as well as speaker, 
though his powers in this line had been until now 
untried. He was able to say in a brief compre- 
hensive way, just what he had in mind, and this 
rare gift was soon recognized by the papers to 
whom he offered his work. 

What he wished to do was simply to call atten- 
ton to the need for the kind of work he was doing 
in different parts of the city, and to explain a little 
the method of work he had found adapted to the 
wants and tastes of the people. But the editors 
had caught the new flavor of his style, and were 
all anxious to have him work up his specialty for 
their columns. He could have had regular work 
as a reporter at once, if he would have accepted 


MAr^^S INHUMANITY TO MAN 275 

it, but for the present he determined to use his pen 
only as a secondary means of reaching his ends. 

He had walked a long way on the evening of 
which we write, and was very weary as he made 
his way toward his lodgings. He had lost all 
thought for the time of the people, and all that 
concerned their welfare, and was musing upon his 
own individual case. As usual when he allowed 
himself to do this, he was thinking of Victoria. 
He saw a good deal of her during this winter, and 
all that he saw but increased his admiration and 
his love. If he did not kiss her shadow as she 
passed him by, it was not that his heart did not 
prompt the act, but that his judgment said him 
nay. 

If he did not give her any sign regarding his 
feelings, it was not that his heart was not at all times 
burning with the desire to do so, but because he 
feared to cut himself off from his present prive- 
lege of intercourse by doing so. She seemed just 
as far away from him as ever. He never for a 
moment hoped to approach her more nearly. He 
could see with clear vision that she never associ- 
ated him with herself in thought. He was some- 
thing outside her life, and would always remain 
so, and the kindness with which she treated him 
was altogether impersonal, and would be given to 


276 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


others in the same measure upon call. That she 
had treated him with added kindness since the day 
of the great storm was due to gratitude he knew, 
and he did not count it any change in his favor. 

While these thoughts were passing in his mind 
he turned a dark corner, and found himself sud- 
denly assaulted by some one who had been lying 
in wait for him there. The sudden blow felled him 
to the ground, and before he could recover from 
the shock and surprise the man was upon him, 
showering blows upon his head and face. He 
grappled with him and endeavored to throw him off, 
but for a moment was held to the earth by the 
man’s weight. The ruffian had come alone, in 
order to secure the money which had been offered 
to him in case he achieved a victory single-handed, 
and he was prepared to do any desperate deed 
rather than lose the^ promised reward. 

Richard well knew that his life was in danger, 
and nerved himself for the worst. By the exer- 
tion of all his strength he at last succeeded in 
throwing the man off and springing to his feet. 
But as he did so a blow from a bludgeon struck 
his left arm and left it hanging powerless at his 
side. With his right hand he struck at the man 
as he approached him, and hurled him to the 
ground. But with his shattered arm he could not 


MAN^S INHUMANITY TO MAN 


277 


long have withstood the bully, and heard with great 
relief the appoach of footsteps in the rear. A 
party of young men to whom he was known, hap- 
pened to be passing by, and they saw his plight and 
came quickly to his assistance. 

The pain of the wounded and broken arm was 
excrutiating by this time, and he allowed his friends 
to hurry him away, and to ring at the door of the 
College Settlement which was nearer than his lodg- 
ing, and then hasten for a doctor to attend him. 

The house was still lighted, and the occupants 
proved to be astir, and in a short time he was 
made as comfortable as his condition allowed. 

When his arm had been set, and a narcotic given 
to allay his pain, he lay upon the bed very white 
and very quiet, and his friends were much alarmed 
by his appearance. 

One of the young men had offered to remain with 
him through the night. But Victoria insisted upon 
remaining in the adjoining room, ready at call 
should any need occur, and there she passed one 
of the most trying nights of her life. She had 
noticed that the doctor looked grave when he left, 
and that he had expressed no opinion as to the 
probable outcome of the assault. She naturally 
feared the worst. 

But it was the cruel shock which the outrage 


278 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


had given to her faith in the people, to the belief 
she had until now enterained that they only needed 
kindness and friendly interest to redeem them 
from their low estate, that hurt her worst. That 
there was real malignity in man was a new reve- 
lation to her. She had known of the mercenary 
vices, and of the wrongs and deceptions to which 
the poor and ignorant were subject, of the personal 
vices arising from self-indulgence she had also 
learned of late, but of that utter depravity which 
wantonly injures another, injures a friend or a 
helper as in this case, she had heretofore had no 
experience. 

She knew as yet nothing of the great criminal 
army which lived but a few blocks away. This 
class of outlaws who lived but to prey on society, 
who might be seen at night after such pure women 
as she had gone to quiet sleep, crawling from their 
hideous hiding-places as bruised snakes crawl with 
shuddering involutions, out into the haunts of men 
to rob, to assault, to kill, of these she had scarcely 
heard as yet. Of the vices festering to dangerous 
despair she knew not. Of the hideous hate which 
may rankle in a human heart she could not even 
conceive. 

She gained no sleep that night. All was quiet 
in the sick-room which she visited at intervals, 


MAN^S INHUMANITY TO MAN 


270 


and she tried to find unconsciousness of her new 
weight and burden, but in vain. She watched the 
long hours through. Meantime Richard lay in 
that dreamy state which opium induces in many, 
neither asleep or fully awake, but conscious of all 
that passed. His pain was soothed, he was happy 
now, and as he watched Victoria glide in and out, 
and saw her tender care for his comfort, he felt 
that he could lie there forever with that one fair 
spirit for his minister. For the first time the 
thought of some remote day when she might learn 
of his devotion and perhaps prize it, filled his soul 
with rapture. Though it was a thought born of 
half delirium, it left its impress upon his brain. 
Fate wove into his web of life a new and shining 
strand that night. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


AN AWAKENING 

Mr. Aubrey awoke one morning to the knowl- 
edge that spring had come. He had kept himself 
diligently housed all winter and worked incredibly, 
as Mr. Armstrong said. No winter before had 
ever yielded such results. At Klosterheim they 
had seen him but rarely, and Lizelle had suffered 
much from his absence. She had hardly been able 
to reconcile herself to this new phase of life. She 
felt that it was very wicked and ungrateful of her 
to demand so much, and with all her little strength 
she fought for the peace and contentment she had 
lost, but hardly with the desired result. This 
morning Aubrey determined to make one of his 
rare visits. His first glance out over the world at 
sunrise had decided this. That ruby flush over 
against the horizon, that increasing rosy glow, as 
the serried spears of light shot up into the deep 
gentian-blue above, the soft breeze that sprung up 
at the same time, and came in at his window, told 
the tale. The ice would melt to-day, the stream 
280 


AN AJVAKENING 


281 


lets overflow, the river become a torrent, the shy 
mosses emerge, the crocus burst its golden globes, 
and the winter birds venture out into the open 
spaces. The pure and motionless splendors of 
the winter were over, and the whole world was to 
become once more a living thing. 

He felt the blood stir more quickly in his own 
veins, and he rose up with enthusiasm to meet the 
glad new day. The spring was always his most 
intense delight, and he hailed this first premoni- 
tory flutter with acclamation. He knew he should 
be long in going, so he sallied forth at an early 
hour intending to reach Klosterheim by a wide cir- 
cuit, knowing of many things he wanted to see 
in just their present state, particularly the lichens 
and mosses. These he loved with a love passing 
all understanding, and sought at all seasons with 
a lover’s devotion. Wherever they veiled the 
dintless rocks with their rounded bosses of gleam- 
ing green he could be seen bending over them, and 
noting all the fairy delicacy of their fringed stalks; 
wherever their fine-filmed tracery covered the roots 
or the stumps of trees, he knelt, peering at the 
soft tapestry with eager eyes of admiration. He 
wondered if the unimpassioned rock did not feel 
their clinging embrace, if the parched woodland 
was not aware of their tender ministries, and if the 


282 


FENCING IVITH SHADOlVS 


weaving of these soft eternal mantles of living 
green was not the task of fairies who might be 
spied upon in their work. He made them the cen- 
ter of all his fanciful thoughts, and loved them of 
all growing things next to the flowers. As he was 
stooping over to admire a silver lichen-spot rest- 
ing star-like on a stone, Mr. Armstrong emerged 
into the open space from the wood beyond. 

“Is it the millenium that has dawned.^’’ he cried 
out. “I felt some great new thing was abroad, 
and started out to find it. You were of the same 
mind, I perceive.” 

“Yes, I heard the spring astir and I didn’t want 
to miss the first notes of the symphony, so I started 
for Klosterheim by the Hudson Bay route, expect * 
ing to reach there ultimately, but doing much by 
the way. Look at this knoll. When I die I should 
like to be buried here and have the moss grow 
over me in that way.” 

“It would make a coverlet worthy even of you, 
Aubrey.” 

“I am trying to gather a handful for Lizelle, but 
it doesn’t bear picking very well. How are all the 
household 

“Lizelle is a little drooping. I think she has 
missed Victoria a good deal, and the winter has 
been rather dull for her. You will cheer her up a 
good deal I fancy.” 


Ah! AIVAKENING 


283 


“I have neglected the child shamefully. This 
shall be my peace offering/^ and he held up the 
nosegay of long stemmed moss, green and gold. 
“I shouldn’t like to miss these springs, Armstrong. 
There isn’t anything in the thought of pearly gates, 
and seas of glass, and golden streets that would 
compensate me. I think I’ll stay here.^’ 

“That is the opinion of mankind in general. 
However glowingly they may describe the great 
New World beyond death’s western sea, they do 
it to reconcile other people to going there. For 
themselves they prefer not to emigrate.” 

“And they are right. This is a good enough 
world for any one. I doubt if a better could be 
made, the material part of it I mean. And it 
would take a good many average lifetimes to get 
properly acquainted with it.” 

When they reached Klosterheim they found Li- 
zelle and Mrs. Armstrong out enjoying the wine 
of the morning air, and pulling the leaf covering 
off the crocus beds to find if possible a bit of color. 
Aubrey shook hands with Mrs. Armstrong, then 
advanced to where Li^elle was shyly waiting, in- 
stead of running toward him with extended hand, 
as had been her wont. He held out his hand and 
presented the mosses. “I brought this to buy you 
up, so you would forgive me for my long neglect 


284 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


of the drawing lessons. Will you take it and rub 
out the marks you have made against me in your 
good books 

‘^Oh the darling' little mosses, where did you 
get them.^” she said holding out her hand. 

^‘Will you have them on my terms,’’ he answered 
holding them high above her head. 

“Oh, yes, on any terms. Do give them to me.” 

“And you won’t hold resentment, but just take 
your lessons again, now you can get them, like 
a good little girl.!”’ 

“Oh, yes, I shall be glad enough to do that,” 
she said, not trying to conceal the pleasure that 
suffused her face. 

“What, going in, Armstrong, and leave this sky, 
and this air.!’ You are mad, man.” 

“No, I’m only tired. You have walked me to 
death. Follow when you please.” 

“I would scorn to be defeated by one spring 
morning, Mrs. Armstrong. Let me take you and 
Lizelle down in the ravine to see the mosses.” 

“I am not able to walk so far, Mr. Aubrey. But 
take Lizelle with you. She is in need of the air 
and the exercise. ” 

So the two started off over the bridge, and 
down into the ravine, where there was a soft car- 
pet of dead leaves gleaming in the sunshine, where 


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AN AIVAKENING 


285 


a few weeks later there would be long ranks of 
nodding ferns and of brakes breast high. Here in 
this deep cleft is a little trickling brook that forms 
an island round a white rock, then settles into an 
amber pool upon which float some skeleton leaves. 
Overhead is a thicket of birch and alder with one 
sentinel pine on its outskirts. 

Coming to the brook, Mr. Aubrey holds out his 
hand to assist Lizelle to leap it, but she is afraid 
to attempt the leap and draws back. “ Afraid 
Shall 1 toss you over, or carry you in my arms,^^ 
he says coming nearer and looking laughingly into 
her face. She blushes and runs back, and he pur- 
sues her through the soft padded paths threaten- 
ingly, laughing at intervals like a boy. She is 
fleet of foot and has jumped the brook at a nar- 
rower place before he has overtaken her. Then 
she runs on through all the winding paths, turning 
sharply here and there to avoid him, until she is 
tired out. 

Then he comes up and looks at her flushed face 
and sparkling eyes, and ejaculates: “That is a 
great improvement upon the listless look you had 
when I first came up. I will come over every 
morning now when the weather is good, and have 
a race with you through the woods. You need 
stirring up. Shall I come.^^'^ He looked down 


286 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


upon her with smiling eyes coming quite near. 
She did not raise her eyes but looked away as she 
said: “Oh if you wish/’ and walked slowly on. 
He talked gaily all the way, and loaded her down 
with woodland treasures which he spied at almost 
every step. 

The little bunch of moss she had pinned on her 
dress, and around it he twined a long vine which 
he caught from the ground and left the long ends 
trailing to her feet. He tucked a blue-jay’s feather 
in her cap, and offered her cones and lichens and 
mosses until she could carry no more. 

He seemed in such a rash mood this morning 
that he was in danger of undoing any good which 
might have been done by his long, self-denying 
absence. Lizelle was shyly happy but not with 
the careless unbounded happiness of last sum- 
mer. She was afraid of being too happy, and held 
herself in some restraint. When they reached the 
bridge he began taking the precious freight she 
carried, bit by bit and tossing it on the water. 
“This trash has no beauty out of the woods,” he 
said and threw the last piece in with a laugh and 
watched it sail away. Lizelle did not resist his 
action at all, but when he looked at her suddenly, 
he saw her eyes swimming in tears. “Did you 
care.^” he exclaimed quickly, taking her hand in 
his. 


AN AIVAKENING 


287 


“Yes, I wanted them all,” she said simply, tak- 
ing her hand away and brushing the tears from 
her eyes. 

“Oh, 1 am so sorry,” he said gently and walked 
gravely on at her side. She rallied at once and 
began talking gaily to him of all that had interested 
her since she saw him last; he listened and smiled 
at her when she looked up in his face, but was 
grave at heart still. 

After lunch they had the drawing lesson in 
Mrs. Amrstrong’s sitting-room, where Lizelle was 
very docile and Mr. Aubrey very quiet, indulging 
in none of the audacious sallies which usually en- 
livened these occasions. 

“Are you not going to let me begin to paint 
pretty soon,” she said, when the lesson was over, 
and he preparing to go. 

“No, I think you would better not try painting. 
I will teach you how to sketch from nature when 
the weather will allow of our getting out, that will 
be much better in every way. You wouldn’t do 
much with colors, and the works of novices are 
not wanted in any part of the known universe to- 
day. They make my hair stand on end. You 
don’t want to afflict me so sorely, do you.'^” 

“No, but I thought you said I might try to paint 
flowers. I should love to paint great bunches of 
roses so much.” 


288 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


‘‘No doubt, but you couldn’t you know, and the 
efforts would be terror-inspiring, I assure you.” 

“But I thought it was easy to paint flowers.” 

“Yes, there is such a tradition abroad in the 
minds of women. But there are plenty of artists 
whose lives are spent in the study of color who will 
not attempt to paint a flower. Did you ever think 
of it, Mrs. Armstrong, that none of the old masters 
painted flowers, and few of the later great artists. 
Titian and Holbein sometimes put in a blossom or 
two. Paul Veronese tried them in the foreground 
of his Europa, but they are crudely done; and 
except a lily or two I don’t remember any flowers 
by Tintoret. The moderns are trying them oftener, 
and some of the pre-Raphaelites are doing excel- 
lent things, but as a rule artists don’t meddle much 
with them. It’s only the young ladies who rush 
in in great force.” 

“And then when we can have the flowers them- 
selves what is the need,” said Lizelle contentedly, 
burying permanently in her heart her little am- 
bition to paint roses. 

“Truly you have no need here to long for them, 
l ean imagine people who live in dark houses in 
cities and seldom see a flower show of nature, 
really enjoying a wall covered with sprays of apple 
blossoms or garlands of roses; but at Klosterheim 


AlVAKEhlWG 


289 


where the orchard will soon be a symphony in 
pink and white, where in the woods there will be 
acres of trilliuns in blossom at once, and where 
every bank will be blue with violets in due season^, 
it would be superfluous indeed.’^ 

“And then the garden,” said Lizelle. “I’ve 
never seen the tulips, but mamma says they are 
as gorgeous as the gladioli were last fall.” 

“We will show you flowers this year, child, such 
as you have never even dreamed of. Wait till the 
gentians bloom over by my palace. They will take 
your breath away.” 

Lizelle clapped her hands in delight at the 
thought and said: “Oh, I can’t wait. Why 
doesn’t something blossom now.^ Oh, where is 
my bouquet of moss.^” looking suddenly down at 
herself and missing it. She looked about the room 
but did not see it and ran out into the hall, where 
Mr. Aubrey found her when he came out search- 
ing everywhere. “Oh, I have lost it, Mr. Aubrey. 
I can’t find it anywhere.” 

“Well, if you have lost it what matter.? It’s 
dry and withered by this time.” 

“But I wanted it,” she said gravely. 

“Nevermind I’ll bring you another when I come 
again,” he said lightly. “There’s a great deal of 
moss in the woods.” 

19 


290 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


“But I wanted my own bunch. I don’t care for 
all the moss in the woods. 

“Why do you want it, little one.^’^ he said bend- 
ing over her and looking into her eyes. 

“Because it was given to me,’’ she said, her eyes 
drooping, and her color changing. “I always keep 
everything my friends give me, even flowers that 
are withered.” 

“And was that why you wanted the lichens this 
morning.^” 

“Yes. I meant to keep them always.” 

“I was so sorry to hurt you even a little, Lizelle. 
I couldn’t hurt you for the world.” 

“I know it,” she said confidently, with the sweet 
trust of a child. 

“You are my best friend, and I am yours too.” 

Just then Mr. Armstrong came out of the library 
and began talking to Aubrey, and he was saved 
from his impulses for the time being. When he 
was gone Lizelle continued her search for the 
bunch of moss, and soon found it in the dining- 
room. She kissed it, and ran up to her room, and 
put it in a little drawer by itself and turned the 
key. Her heart was singing its happiest song to- 
day, and she knelt down by the little bed and 
buried her face in the covering, crying softly as she 
prayed, 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE DYING OF A HOPE 

The amendment in the condition of Richard 
Savage was but slow. The shattered arm was a 
cruel hurt, and much fever and restless suffering 
ensued. Victoria remained at home to care for 
him until he was well on the way to recovery. 
Spite of his suffering it was perhaps the most bliss- 
ful period of his life. He never forgot the even- 
ings when he was quiet from the influence of 
opiates and seemed to sleep, but was really con- 
scious of all that went on, when Victoria sat by 
his bedside and attended to his wants. He could 
feel her change the cool cloths upon his forehead, 
and the touch of her fingers was ecstasy. Some- 
times she smoothed back his hair, or laid her 
fingers upon his pulse, when the thrill went to the 
center of his being. He would gladly have lain 
there forever for the sake of this unhoped for bliss. 

But he knew before he was fully recovered that 
he had but the smallest share in her thought all 
the time. One evening he lay with his eyes closed 
291 


292 


FENCING IVITH SHADOU^S 


and really half asleep, when he heard a sob in the 
room. He opened his eyes and saw Victoria sit- 
ting at a little table on the opposite side of the 
room, resting her head upon it and weeping softly. 
He lay still for some moments wondering what 
could be the cause of her distress. Suddenly the 
thought came into his mind that she was worried 
over his condition, that the tears were for him. 

When he was really himself he would not have 
entertained the thought, but now he was weakened 
with illness and somewhat affected by opium still, 
and the thought did not seem to him as impossible a 
one, as at another time. A feeling of transport 
swept through his soul, such as had never before 
filled it. He held his breath in ecstatic joy. His 
joy was not tempered by doubt as it would have 
been in a perfectly natural state of mind, but it 
was the sudden bliss of certainty. Why else should 
she have cared for him during these long, hard 
days he thought, why else have been so, consider- 
ate and thoughtful of him always, for he could not 
remember that in all the time he had known her 
she had ever once allowed him to see that she felt 
the slightest difference in their stations of life. 
He had no knowledge pf such consummate breed- 
ing as this, he could only account for it by the 
thought of personal favor on her part. 


THE DYING OF A HOPE 


293 


True he had never dared to think this before, 
but the thought floated seductively before him now, 
and he had not strength to repel it. After a short 
time passed with this glittering vision before his 
eyes, he made a slight movement which roused 
Victoria, and she turned her face toward him still 
bathed in tears. 

^^Don’t worry about me. Miss Armstrong,’’ he 
said, gently, as he saw her agitated face. “I am 
really better, am I not.? There is nothing now' 
to delay me, is there?” 

“Indeed you are better,” she said, thinking only 
of re-assuring'him. “You are almost well indeed. 
And as for me, I was not thinking of you in the 
least. I believe I am a little homesick these days, 
and it makes me better to cry once in a while.” 
She did not mean to rebuff him. She attached no 
meaning to his words implying an interest in him 
on her part. She had scarcely noticed them. But 
her words cut him to the heart, and caused all the 
fair fabric of his dream to topple about his head. 
She “was not thinkjng of him in the least,” he re- 
peated to himself, and dwelt upon it. He hugged 
his disappointment to his heart, and made himself 
as bitterly miserable, as he had been falsely elated 
a moment before. The crushing thought of her 
utter separation from him throughout the future. 


294 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


took full possession of his mind. She was entirely 
apart from him now, here in his very presence, 
even while ministering to him so nobly; that he 
could see now, and she would grow more and more 
away from him throughout the years. 

He could see those long years now, stretching 
away before him, each exacting its own amount of 
pain. They seemed to him too long. He turned 
wearily away from their contemplation, and tried 
to fasten his mind on other things. But he could 
not succeed in doing so. It was the old woe of 
the world, the tune to whose rise and fall we live 
and die. And it would darken his life for many 
years, darken it, yet lighten it too. For it was 
the one purple flower in his garden of life. Nothing 
but hard reality aside from this, no music, per- 
fume, glamour, or sweet dreams. 

So he was enriched even by his loss, and his 
life glorified even by what was denied. At no 
time would he have had it otherwise than as it 
was, as far as his own love was concerned. To 
be asked to cast it out, or try to do so, would have 
seemed to him a profanation. He simply buried it 
there from the eyes oi all men, and had his hours 
of visiting it as we visit a grave. 

After awhile it ceased to be painful thus to re- 
call it — only sadly sweet. A gracious possession 


THE D YING OF A HOPE 


295 


forever, this one love of his life — whose fragrance 
lingered with him long after the flower itself had 
fallen into dust. All the beautiful fervor of his 
youth had gone into it, all the romance of his 
nature, it was his Song of Songs — the lyric of his 
life. And when its burial took place, Victoria sat 
calmly by entirel}^ unconscious of the tragedy, 
and no thought of the one mourner, in her heart. 

Next day all was as usual between them. “Tell 
me why you are so sad about your great work, 
Miss Armstrong, while I have so much joy in mine,” 
he said to her as she sat very quiet by his window, 
thinking over the old pain, which was no easier 
through all these months. 

“Perhaps because you see more immediate re- 
sults from yours. You have much to cheer you in 
the real good you accomplish, and which lies open 
to the view. If any results come from mine they 
will be more remote, and perhaps I shall never re- 
cognize them. Results are never I believe just 
what we expect them to be. In some other way 
than ours the good finally comes.” 

“But we all feel so sure of the good your book 
will do. There is scarcely reason for a doubt about 
that. And I think it will be a good which will be 
apparent soon, too. The world is in a very will- 
ing spirit just now. Formerly reforms had to wait 


296 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


a weary time to make any progress. Now they 
are scarcely promulgated from the busy brain of 
the reformer, before some practical action is taken 
to bring them about. Mr. Webster and Mr. Arm- 
strong have given me many instances of this, and 
I feel quite certain that whatever I can propose 
that is really wise and practicable, will be warmly 
seconded by the people who have the money and 
the influence to put it in practical operation.’^ 

‘‘I am glad you can be so hopeful, Mr. Savage. 
I too believe in the benevolent heart of our time, 
but perhaps not quite so fully. Do you know that 
I think that with your help I have all the material 
I can well use in my first book, and that I am go- 
ing home soon to write it.^ Much of it is already 
written in my note-books. All the statistics are 
there. But I have the incidents of life I have 
taken note of, and the ones you have given me, to 
work up, and the whole to put in shape. It will 
take me all the summer, I think. 

“I am glad you have the work so nearly ready 
to write, and glad you are going home to do it. 
I am very sorry to see you so sad and lonely here, 
Miss Armstrong. I wish I could do something to 
help you. Will you not go home at once, and let 
me bring you the rest of the^ material.!^ I shall be 
about again in a week, I hope.^^ 


THE D YING OF A HOPE 


297 


^‘No, I am going to stay here until I am through. 
But I do want to get to Klosterheim for the real 
spring. That will not be long now, and I am al- 
ready anticipating all the delights of the season. 
You would better go out there as soon as you are 
able, Mr. Savage, and recuperate. You will not 
be able to work at once.’^ 

‘‘You are very kind, and Klosterheim tempts me 
almost as Paradise would, but I cannot go. I have 
lost too much time already. Everything will fall 
back if I am not at the helm.’’ He noticed that 
she did not urge him to come, and he nursed the 
pain her failure to do so caused. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE CANOPY OF SUNSHINE 

The first week in May found the woods full of 
flowers and the trees showing quite green in places, 
with the peculiar pale green of that season. Here 
and there a clump of poplars were in full dress, and 
every separate leaf was quivering with buoyant 
and burning life, as the light breezes wept over the 
rippling surface of the wood. As you looked up 
through the vistas of over-arching trees they looked 
like the hollows of the mighty waves of some trans- 
lucent sea, the color of emerald and opals blent 
together by the great Alchemist. 

Down amid the mosses the arbutus trailed its 
sprays of rose and snow, and made the air like 
spice. Some dainty wild flower starred every mossy 
knoll, and ferns were breaking through hidden 
coverts with their delicate fronds. Violets lay like 
flakes of the blue sky upon the sunniest banks. 
All delicate green things were springing forth, and 
every worthless weed was for a time, dainty as the 

chaplet of a fairy queen. 

298 


THE CAN OP Y OF SUNSHINE 299 

Mr. Aubrey was abroad in the woods at all 
hours. No more painting, no more etching for 
him, during this resurrection morning of the year. 
Once in a while he drew a rare leaf or flower or 
spray, in a note-book, or sketched a dark rock 
with its fissures, but for the most part he wandered 
aimlessly, drinking in the sunlight as a flower 
drinks the dew. 

On one of the brightest of these illuminated days 
he was making his way to Klosterheim, where Mr. 
Armstrong had told him the. tulips were in their 
splendor. The tulip show at Klosterheim was not 
a thing to be missed of artist eyes, and Mr. Au- 
brey was going purposely to see it. He had not 
been there since the day he had romped with Li- 
zelle in the woods. He was looking as he walked 
along for something to take to her, more worthy 
than the bunch of moss she had lost, or than the 
sylvan treasures he had cast so carelessly away. 
A flat basket hung on his arm lined with the fair- 
est mosses he had seen, and into this he put the 
choicest of all the choice blossoms he could find. 
A border of arbutus was around the edge, and a 
fringe of wind-flowers drooped over it. The cen- 
ter was blue violets, and he was dotting it here and 
there with every fair flower or bud he could find. 
He made wide circuits in his search and rejected 


:^oo 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


everything that was not perfect. ‘‘She cannot 
keep this,” he said to himself, “but she can keep 
the thought of it, and I v/ill make it as beautiful 
as the woods allow. She is the violet among 
women, and it ought all to be of that darling 
flower — but we will have a variety; it will be 
more pleasing so.” When his basket was full, he 
filled his arms with arbutus and thus laden appeared 
at the rustic bridge. He looked about but was 
disappointed at seeing no one near, and went slowly 
up the walk. 

It occurred to him then to make a detour by the 
way of the tulip-garden. This thought was repaid 
by the discovery of Lizelle among the tulips, cloth- 
ed in blue like the violets he carried, and with a 
fleecy white shawl all about her. He crept silently 
up behind her and hung the basket over her 
shoulder. She cried out with pleasure, and he 
peered round into her face almost touching her 
cheek with his own as he did so, and saying: 
“What will you give for them.^” 

“Oh, anything, anything, the dear violets — I 
have never had a bouquet of them,” she answered, 
stepping forward, then turning to look at him. 
He put the basket into her hands, and said: “You 
don’t know what delight I have had in gathering 
them for you. You will not miss the dry moss 


now. 


THE CANOP Y OF SUNSHINE 301 . 

“Oh, but I have that too. I found it after you 
were gone, and it will keep even better than these. 
I shall have that always.’^ 

“Well what are you going to give me for these. 
I must have some gift as well as you — tulips 

“Tulips are about all we have now. I can’t 
find the wild flowers as you do, Mr. Aubrey. 1 
have been all through the woods where you and I 
walked — or rather ran — and I found only a few 
little blossoms.” 

“You will have to come with me and I will show 
you all their haunts. But first you must make up 
my bunch of tulips — a big one — and you must 
select every flower with as much care as I did.” 

“That will take a long time, Mr. Aubrey.” 

“No matter for that — -we have the day before 
us. And I must have the pick of the whole gar- 
den. That may take till noon. After that we 
will go on our exploring expedition. I was a long 
time getting here, but I am going to stay now that 
I have come.” They then began to look over the 
tulip beds critically to find the finest flowers be- 
fore picking even one. 

“Will you have this.^*” Lizelle said at last bend- 
ing over a gorgeous blossom of scarlet and gold 
delicately marked and veined. 

“Oh, I am to have nothing to say about it. 


302 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


You are making me a present. It must be your 
own taste.’’ 

‘‘But I have no taste — please help me. I don’t 
know in the least what you will think the finest 
flowers.” 

“It doesn’t matter. Give me the ones 3^ou like 
best. That is what I want.” 

But he followed her closely, and bent over her 
to see every separate blossom she examined, and 
laughed gaily every time she turned her eyes up- 
ward to ask if he would have a certain flower. He 
took each blossom as it was picked, touching her 
ungloved hand once in a while to see if it was get- 
ting cold, but not offering to give her back her 
gloves which he held. He smiled radiantly as his 
treasures accumulated, saying: 

“What will Armstrong say at my having all the 
prize tulips. How did you learn to know the 
rarest, Perdita.^ Ah, see the shadings here, I am 
not sure but that you could paint, little one. You 
have a faultless eye for color.” 

Lizelle’s face glowed with pleasure at his praise, 
and the eyes sparkled that looked 'shyly into his 
to see if the flower met his approval. 

At last he cried out that he had enough, and 
they sat down upon a garden seat to arrange them. 
Here there was frequent meeting of hands and of 


THE CANOP Y OF SUNSHINE 


303 


eyes, soft blushes and drooping eyelids, and much 
serious effort on the part of Mr. Aubrey to keep 
Lizelle’s shawl around her, as the breeze blew it 
about. The ribbons of her hat fluttered about his 
face, and even her soft hair loosened by the wind 
touched his cheek, as he bent toward her, eager 
to watch the making of the bouquet. A bluejay 
hopped about close to their feet watching the whole 
proceeding with the keenest interest, and a robin 
poured out his soul in melody just above their 
heads. The breath of violets and arbutus was 
on the air, and as long as Lizelle lived their odor 
brought her back to the garden seat, to the thrill- 
ing touch of Aubrey’s hand, and the passionate 
pleasure that shone from his dark eyes. 

At last the arrangement of the flowers was com - 
pleted, and Lizelle was instructed to take them 
into the house, put them in water, put on a heavier 
wrap, and come down into the woods to be shown 
where the flowers grew — such ignorance upon the 
part of a country girl being clearly reprehensible. 
Taking her own basket of flowers too, she went into 
the house while he waited at the door. Going up 
to her own room with it, she kissed it on the way, 
and again and again as she placed it on her dress- 
ing table. Then glancing in the glass and blushing 
to look herself in the face, she went out to Mr, 


304 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


Aubrey once more. They ran a race to the bridge, 
lingered there to notice the amber pools about the 
rocks in the stream below, and the foam bells dot- 
ing its surface, then passed into the wood-path be- 
yond. 

On, and on, and on, chatting and laughing, until 
they reached the little brook once more which 
crossed their path. Without waiting for permis- 
sion this time, Mr. Aubrey caught |^izelle in his 
arms and leaped over, placed her on the ground, 
laughed, and demanded a kiss as the price of his 
exertion. Bewildered and frightened she ran fleetly 
away, and eluded him for a longf time, hiding be- 
hind trees, and turning back upon her path at in- 
tervals. At last tired out she seated herself upon 
a mossy log under a wide-spreading beech, and be- 
gan to arrange her somewhat disheveled hair. 
While thus engaged Mr. Aubrey came quietly up 
and seated himself beside her, saying: “Did I 
frighten you, dear.? Forgive me, and let me sit 
beside you here, and tell you what the kiss will 
be worth to me, and then you shall give it or not 
as you choose.” 

Then he put his arm about her and drew her 
close to him as he said: “It will be worth more 
to me, Lizelle, than anything else the world can 
give me. I have tried everything else almost, and 


THE CANOPY OF SUNSHINE 305 

now love seems to me the one thing worth having. 
Can you give it to me, Lizelle.^^^^ For answer she 
laid her head on his breast, and he bent over and 
took the kiss he had asked for from her upturned 
lips, and followed it by a shower of others upon 
cheek and brow and hair. Then she tried to re- 
lease herself from his arm, but was held the closer, 
as he said softly: “No, you can never get away 
any more. You need not try, for I shall hold you 
closely as long as I live. You are the one thing in 
the world worth having. I have you, and I shall 
keep you. And you must tell me in words, that 
you love me and you must give me a kiss of your 
own accord.’^ 

It took long to bring the shy lips to say the 
words, but after a time they came: “Oh, Mr. Au- 
brey, you know I have loved you ever since I first 
knew you,” and the words were followed by a will- 
ing kiss. Then she said: “But I could not be- 
lieve that you would ever love me, and I was very 
unhappy some of the time.” 

“Well I was not as wise as you. I have loved 
you ever since I first saw you, also, but I did not 
know it by that name for a long time. I thought 
to love and pet you as I would a child. I thought 
you were a child for a long time — until that day I 
made the sketch of you in the library. Then I 


20 


306 


FENCING WITH SHADOWS 


knew you were a woman, and I thought you might 
love me if I tried to win you. But you were so 
much younger than I was, and so much better and 
purer, that I thought it would be taking a base ad- 
vantage of you, to try to win you before you had 
seen any one else, or knew anything of the world. 
So I staid away from you all winter, to give you 
time to forget me, and to see others of your own 
age and perhaps love some one more suitable for 
you, than I am. But I was very unhappy too, 
and I finally made up my mind to be selfish and 
to take you if I could get you, and to spend the 
rest of my life in making you so happy that you 
couldn’t regret it if you tried.” 

“Oh, Mr. Aubrey, you must know that I shall 
never regret it, that I couldn’t possibly have loved 
any one else in all my life, and that if you had not 
loved me, that I should just have died when once 
I was entirely sure of it.” 

The tears welled over and ran down her cheek 
as she said it, and Mr. Aubrey felt a solemn as- 
surance that what she had said was true, that she 
could not have existed long without the love he 
had given her. The thought made him serious 
when he remembered how he had debated in his 
heart whether or not to yield to the attraction he 
had felt for her from the first, and how he had 


THE CHNOPY OF SUNSHINE 


307 


even tried to curb what he thought was his infatu- 
ation, by remembering her lowly position, and 
questioning about her honorable birth. 

How contemptible all the objections he had 
raised in his thought, seemed to him now. What 
his mother would say, what his friends would think, 
how this wild flower would appear in the hot- 
houses of the great, what plebeian blood flowed in 
her veins, all these things seemed unworthy of a 
man like him, and he was astonished to think such 
thoughts had ever passed through his mind. It 
seemed to him now that this embodiment of girlish 
purity, this fresh unspoiled nature with nothing of 
worldliness or of deceit about her, and with her 
wealth of unselfish devotion to him, was by far the 
most precious thing the world contained, and that 
without her at his side, life would have no further 
charms for him. With her he should renew his 
youth, and find new sources of pleasure in every 
passing day. She was young and her repressed 
life had kept her from the full development of her 
powers, but he knew that she had a rich nature, 
and that it would expand under his care as a flower 
in the sun. 

She was the same type of woman as the girl he 
had loved in his youth. Perhaps that was what had 
first attracted him. She had a little look that re- 


308 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


minded him of that early friend also, and at first 
he used to sit and watch her, trying to catch that 
passing resemblance once and again. Soon that 
suggestion of the old, was lost in interest in the 
new, and then he had found himself thinking by 
day, and dreaming by night, of a mere child as he 
considered her, and was very angry at his own 
folly. Up to the time Victoria had spoken her 
word of warning, he had never thought of Lizelle 
as being likely to be attracted to him, other than 
in a friendly girlish fashion, and he had not thought 
it necessary to account strictly to himself for his 
own feelings. He was vexed to be obliged to do 
so, and to put any restraint upon his intercourse with 
Lizelle. But he was a man strictly conscientious 
in such things, and until he was entirely sure of 
himself, he thought it right to keep aloof from her 
as much as possible. This was the more of a trial 
to him after he had discovered or thought he had 
done so, that her feelings toward him was like his 
own toward her. But he had clung to his purpose 
to test himself thoroughly and, had deferred his 
happiness until he was sure that it was laid on 
lasting foundations. 

He had spent many years and much of lordly 
strength in battling with a vague reget, and fore- 
boding a loveless future. Now he determined to 


THE CANOP Y OF SUNSHINE 309 

leap into that future carrying love v^ith him as a 
defense against all other ills, and foreboding- 
nothing. 

Time's wasting sovereignty should be ignored, 
in the presence of Love which is the child of all 
eternity. He could fight back all the legions of 
clamorous care, he felt, and all the aggressions of 
despair and doubt, while still he had those violet 
eyes that swam in love, while still he had the lips 
which should be kissed. 

As they sat there together in their trance of 
love, he took from his pocket a tiny old-fashioned 
ring, very quaint and rare, and slipped it upon 
her finger. “It was worn once by one as young 
and fair as you, who went away and left a space 
behind her which no one but you could ever fill. 
I am sure that she is glad to have you fill the empty 
heart and to wear the sacred ring.” 

Lizelle looked at the ring in gentle awe, turned 
it about on her finger once or twice, then kissed 
him as she said: “I will try to make you forget 
that the heart was ever empty.” 

“I have forgotten it already, you have filled it 
so full of love and joy.” 

Then they walked back through the woodland 
ways arm in arm, forgetful of the flowers they had 
come to seek, conscious only of each other’s pres- 


810 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


ence, and of the great new joy that filled their 
lives. In vain that newly arrived vocalist, the 
oriole, poured out his heavenly song above their 
heads, though Mr. Aubrey had been watching for 
him long, in expectant solicitude— he did not hear 
that sweetest strain of all — so intent was he upon 
the softer music of the lips he loved. And in vain 
for her the violets beckoned on the banks, or the 
tiny ferns fluttered their green flags, she saw 
nothing but the dark eyes bending above her, and 
the smile that illuminated the well beloved face. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE SHADOW FENCING ENDS 

Victoria was very busy during the last weeks of 
her sojourn in the city. She was out all day pur- 
suing her investigations and returned so worn out 
at night, that she had no strength to give to the 
work carried on in the evening by the ladies of the 
Settlement. But she often looked in upon the 
various classes and clubs which assembled there, 
and took great delight in their undoubted success. 
Plenty of teachers were to be found for any class 
which it was thought advisable to form. Men who 
were busy all day about their own avocations, 
came gladly once a week to give an evening to the 
instruction of these neglected people. 

Lectures upon health and hygiene, upon the 
care of children, and their moral training, upon 
temperance and purity, upon sanitation, and upon 
the organization oblabor, were given b}^ those who 
could speak simply and in a manner to interest 
this class of minds. Regular classes for study were 
formed for those who could be interested in these, 
311 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


and lighter forms of amusement mingled with in- 
struction for others. 

There was much simple music at all the gather- 
ings, and this was furnished by another army of 
volunteers. Regular singing classes were soon or- 
ganized by Richard among the people themselves, 
many good voices were discovered, and the greatest 
interest was awakened in this branch, of anything 
which had yet been attempted. The hall where 
the singing classes were held was always crowded, 
and many were unable to obtain entrance. New 
classes were then formed to accommodate this 
overflow, until every evening in the week was filled 
by them, and one man’s whole time given to them. 
They were soon made self-sustaining by small fees, 
as Richard desired to have all his enterprises 
made as soon as possible after their inauguration. 
Richard had not yet entirely recovered from the 
shock of the assault upon him, and as he began to 
go out again about his work, Victoria felt great 
anxiety lest he should meet with further violence. 
But the men for whose welfare he was working 
were very vigilant in their watch over him, and 
repelled any attack by their adversaries, by the 
very knowledge that this vigilance was maintained, 
and that any violence on the part of Richard’s 
enemies, would be met and repelled by men of 


THE SH/4D0PV FENCING ENDS 


313 


brawn, whose numbers would exceed their own. 
The logic of heavier battalions has some effect 
even upon the lawless. 

Richard himself was far from being a Quaker 
saint, they well knew. The hand that was so open 
in charity and so gentle in guidance, could be- 
come a clenched fist with savage power in it in 
repelling a ruffianly attack. If it became neces- 
sary in order to disperse a mob, or vindicate law 
and order to charge upon the people with grape 
and canister he would never shirk the responsibil- 
ity. He would stand alongside shotted cannon, 
and give the order to “fire,’’ without blenching, if 
that became necessary to preserve the peace and 
protect the people. 

There was a strain of sternness in the man, easily 
recognizable through all his tenderness, and it 
helped him greatly in the work he had undertaken. 
In the numberless cases of injustice and oppres- 
sion on the part of the employer, which were 
brought to his notice, the sternness of his spirit 
served him well. He never failed to denounce the 
wrongdoer to his face, and to demand justice in 
terms which usually effected their purpose. 

Few men cared to carry on a controversy with 
him, when he was in the right. When he had oc- 
casion to interfere between the unscrupulous par- 


314 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


ent and his children, as was frequently the case, 
the stern courage with which he came to the en- 
counter almost always carried his point. The 
most brutalized parent flinched before his spirited 
accusations, and yielded to his demands for redress 
for the helpless, as a matter of necessity, well 
knowing that this man would carry his point, hav- 
ing as he always did have, the law and its machinery 
upon his side, and strength and determination 
enough to call them into requisition, if defied. 

But he was seldom defied; he was usually yielded 
to in sullen resentment. He well knew how much 
unkindness there is in sentimental weakness, and 
he never yielded to it. Especially was this the 
case in his dealing with vicious men. When a 
man entering upon a course of dissipation, witi\ 
maudlin tears courted his sympathy, and professed 
his inability to resist the temptations which sur- 
rounded him, Richard sternly bade him be a man 
and defy temptation. He called out all the fight- 
ing qualities of the man’s nature, to enter upon a 
battle — a real personal encounter with an enemy — 
to be prepared to give and take hard blows, but to 
go into the fight with the full determination to 
conquer, or to die. 

He had great success along this line, and was 
much urged to give his whole time to this work. 


THE SHADOIVEENCIHG ENDS 


315 


But it was much better worth while to prevent a 
man from becoming a drunkard than to save one 
already lost, he felt, and he was too busy in laying 
out work on long lines, to give much time person- 
ally to his method of salvation for drinking men, 
though he had great faith in its efficacy. He found 
his only relaxation in his intercourse with Victoria, 
and dreaded very much her approaching departure. 
He also longed very much for Mr. Webster’s re- 
turn. He felt the need of some sort of intercourse 
with a trained mind. 

He wished to test all his theories, in the white 
light of a critical intellect, and to see how they 
bore that fierce glare. Mr. Webster had an un- 
erring power of detecting a fallacy. He could 
look through the most specious films of sophistry; 
and scent a lie in its most subtle guise. Richard 
himself had this power, but in a lesser degree, his 
training not having perfected it as Mr. Webster’s 
had done. 

Richard was very fond of talking of Mr. Web- 
ster to Victoria, and of giving him the high praise 
he thought his due, in that quarter. Victoria liked 
to listen to his words, and gave ready assent to all 
the phrases in which Richard praised his intellect- 
ual greatness, the kindly interest he had taken in 
his fortunes, and the general breadth of his nature. 


816 


FENCING IVITH SHADOWS 


and its fine culture. But Richard noticed that she 
always stopped there. . When he dilated upon the 
nobility of his character, his high principle, and 
breadth of philanthopic feeling, she never echoed 
his thought. She sat in a kind of pained silence 
through these praises, and had the look of one 
whose dangerous wound is being handled. 

Richard had noted this so many times that he 
began to attach importance to it, and speculate 
upon it. He had felt the deepest sympathy in Mr. 
Webster’s disappointment, and would gladly have 
assisted him in any way within his power. He 
had now come to the conclusion that Victoria loved 
the man, in spite of her rejection of his offer, and 
he was studying upon the cause of that rejection. 

He longed to question her but did not dare to 
presume upon such a course. Through all the 
sweet simplicity of Victoria’s character, there was 
a blended gentleness and dignity, which forbade 
familiarity, and no one ever asked her a question 
which she would not have chosen to have asked. 
The small vice of curiosity about the affairs of 
other’s had no existence in her nature, and she 
could not tolerate it in others in regard to her own 
affairs. One or two slight repulses were generally 
sufficient to check any tendency in this direction 
among those she mingled with. Even Lizelle had 


THE SHADOIV FENCING ENDS 


317 


asked her no questions since the night she had be- 
stowed her confidence upon her, although that 
gentle heart had been much afflicted all these 
months by the revelation then made. 

Victoria had written lovingly every week of 
Lizelle’s affairs, but had given no words to her 
own troubles. 

One evening as Victoria and Richard were sit- 
ting together in the twilight, he determined in the 
interest of his friend to probe this matter a little 
deeper than he had ever dared to do. He began 
by saying that he had received a letter from Mr. 
Webster and that he was coming home. He spoke 
of some trouble which his friend had carried away 
with him, which had not been made lighter by 
his long journeyings, and which he was coming 
home to bear as became a man, in the society of 
his friends. 

“Why do you say he is unhappy — does he write 
to you of such things.?’^ demanded Victoria almost 
haughtily, yet in a somewhat agitated manner. 

“He has said that much to me, and I know what 
it means. Miss Armstrong; he told me before he 
left New York.’’ 

“It is very strange. How can a man of Mr. 
Webster’s dignity care to talk of such things to 
strangers, or chance aquaintances,” said Vitoria 
much annoyed. 


818 


FENCING JVITH SHADOWS 


“I beg your pardon, Miss Armstrong, for refer- 
ring to the matter at all; but you will believe me, 
I am sure, when I tell you I have only your hap- 
piness in mind when I do so. But it has become 
strongly impressed upon my mind of late, that you 
might be laboring under some misapprehension in 
regard to Mr. Webster, which was causing you 
both great unhappiness.” 

‘‘You are quite mistaken, Mr. Savage, and I 
hope you will not refer to the matter again. I 
have the clearest proofs of the unworthiness of 
Mr. Webster to be regarded in the light of a friend 
by any self-respecting woman, and you can easily 
see, I suppose, that I do not wish to discuss the 
matter further.” 

“But, Miss Armstrong, I must even brave your 
displeasure in not dropping this serious matter 
there. I am perfectly sure that you are deceived 
in this matter. Whatever fancied knowledge you 
may have, I dare dispute its claims upon our be- 
lief. We know some things we cannot prove, and 
I know Mr. Webster is an honorable man and not 
a villain.” 

“It is impossible for me to tell you what I 
know. But I do know it, and no argument or dis- 
cussion can disprove the facts. Please regard my 
wishes in the matter, and never speak of it again.” 


THESHADOIV FENCING ENDS 


819 


shall obey you, but with this last protest. 
Do not wreck my friend’s life and your own, with- 
out giving him a chance to vindicate himself. It 
is monstrously unfair, an injustice I should not 
have thought you capable of.’^ 

Victoria had risen to her feet and stood there 
trembling in every limb, and white as marble. 
Richard had risen too. His excitement was as 
great as her own, and he was prepared to risk 
even her friendship in defense of one he believed 
to be unjustly accused. 

“Oh, Mr. Savage — do you think I can have 
wronged him so.?’^ she faltered, and sank back 
half-fainting in her chair. 

“I am sure of it. I don’t care what you have 
been told, or by whom, I pronounce it false and 
I will prove it so if you will but give me the 
chance.” 

“Oh, I will, I will, if you think there is any 
hope. It cannot be wrong to tell you, where a 
man’s innocence or guilt is concerned. Surely I 
ought to have told some one before, who would 
have given Mr. Webster a chance to defend him- 
self. It was very very wrong of me to keep silent. 
But I never doubted what I was told. I supposed 
I knew that he was guilty. And indeed I think 
still that he is. How can it be otherwise.^” She 


320 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


was SO overcome by her feelings that she could 
say no more for some time. But Richard stood 
before her with his arms folded on his breast, in- 
sisting by his very attitude upon being told every- 
thing. After a little time she began brokenly, but 
could only falter the name of Violet Lee. It was 
enough. 

“I understand. Miss Armstrong, and I promise 
to disprove the charge. Do not think I would 
condone such a fault even in my most honored 
friend. If the charge prove to be true I will see 
the girl righted as far as such a thing is possible, 
even at the sacrifice of the high reputation of my 
friend, and his friendship for me, which is the 
most precious thing I possess in the world — next 
to your own — Miss Armstrong. Do you not think 
that I feel for the wrongs of such a woman even as 
you do, my friend.^ You do not know me well, 
if you doubt it. Sometimes when I look abroad 
over the world, and see the great aggregate of 
crimes against women, and the lack of any ade- 
quate punishment of such crimes, I grow beside 
myself with hot indignation. The cruel wrongs of 
young girls, mere children, incite me to fury when 
I hear of them, wrongs perpetrated by those we call 
human beings, but which would shame the devils 
in hell — the wrongs of weak and ignorant girls 


THE SHADOH^ FENCING ENDS 321 

lured on to destruction by fiends, sometimes of 
their own sex, inspire me with deadly horror; the 
wrongs of married women of which I often hear, 
are almost equally appalling; and worst of all are 
the fiendish outrages commited upon those we call 
fallen women, and which are utterly disregarded 
by those in authority, and by the communities who 
are responsible for them. I know about all these 
things from my position, and I assure you. Miss 
Armstrong, that if I ever doubt of the existence of 
a God above us, it is when I dwell upon them. 
This page is the blackest one in the whole book of 
life.” 

He spoke in strong agitation, giving vent for the 
first time to the pent up emotion of months, and 
unmindful of whom he was addressing — half un- 
conscious indeed of who it was. 

‘‘Do you wonder then, Mr. Savage, at my own 
feeling in this matter.^ I have felt all that you 
feel, and if possible, more deeply still, ever since 
I have been hearing the stories of the women 
among whom I work, stories which I long to write, 
but which are unwritable, unthinkable even, but 
which the pure and intelligent women of our land 
should know, and must know, before any effectual 
appeal can be made to them to help right the 
wrongs which their sisters endure. I carry this 
21 


323 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


burden on my heart, Mr. Savage, and sometimes 
it bears me to the very ground. And oh it was 
hard to find myself deceived in one to whom I had 
looked up, whose help I had relied upon to aid my 
sisters — ’’ She wept again, and Richard said im- 
petuously: 

^‘You are deceived. There are still pure and 
noble men, who keep themselves unspotted from 
the world. Mr. Webster is one of them.^’ 

The confidence of Richard cheered Victoria a 
little, and she promised to investigate Violet Lee’s 
case more thoroughly than she had ever thought 
of doing, and to go at once to her house with that 
object in view. 

Richard was impatient. He could not wait for 
the vindication of his friend even for a night, he 
felt. He wished to accompany Victoria, but she 
would not allow him to intude upon Violet with- 
out her permission. She went alone, while Rich- 
ard in great excitement paced the streets awaiting 
her return. 

He had little confidence in her ability to extract 
the truth from the woman he believed to have 
cruelly deceived her, and he was planning to probe 
the whole matter for himself, in advance of Mr. 
Webster’s arrival, for which he was far too im- 
patient to wait. It cut him to the heart to have 


THE SHADOIV FENCING ENDS 


323 


this charge made against one whom he had con- 
sidered not only above reproach, but above sus- 
picion. 

By his own royal scorn of such baseness he had 
measured that of his friend, and he could not be- 
lieve that he had been deceived. What the shock 
of such a revelaton had been to a woman like Vic- 
toria he could partly picture by the recoil of his 
own soul — but not in its entirety. A woman of 
Victoria’s type is hurt unto death by the knowl- 
edge of such baseness in one she loves, and there 
are many who go down to the grave every year, 
who have been given the fatal blow by lover, hus- 
band, son or brother. The world never knows — 
but they are foully murdered and by these dearest 
hands. 

Victoria was received by Violet Lee with much 
affection, and the change in her looks immediately 
noted. 

‘^You are ill, let me do something for you, were 
almost her first words. 

‘^No, I am not ill,’^ she said sitting down and 
taking the baby, who crowed her loudest at sight 
of the one friend she knew. 

“But you are pale and there are such dark lines 
under your eyes. You must go home to your 
mother. You are just killing yourself trying to 
do this work, you are so unfitted, for. 


324 


FENCING IVITH'SHADOIVS 


‘‘No, Violet, it is not that. lam very unhappy, 
and I shall never look or feel any better as long as 
I have this weight on my mind.’’ 

“Oh, Miss Armstrong, what trouble can you 
have ? I thought you were the most fortunate as 
well as the noblest woman in the world.” 

“My trouble is connected with you, Violet. I 
never told you that Mr; Webster was my dearest 
friend — would have been m)^ husband but for your 
story.” 

“Impossible! Mr. Webster I did not even 
know that you were acquainted with him. You 
love him.^ He love you.^’ Oh, it cannot be. 
There must be some terrible mistake. I cannot 
have you love him, it would kill me.” 

“Then it is really all true as you have told me, 
Violet.^ You do not deceive me.^ Can you give 
me any proof of what you say.^* For the last time 
I am asking myself the question if I do him a 
wrong. I must know or I shall die.” 

“I have no proof — how could I have, but do 
you doubt the awful truth of what I have told 
you 

“But have you no word of writing in his hand, 
no promise — nothing Something which will for- 
bid me ever to doubt again.^” said Victoria sobbing 
now as violently as Violet herself who was over- 
come with strong emotion. 


THE SHADOIV FENCING ENDS 


325 


“Not a line. Nothing but his photograph,” she 
said, rising and going to a little locked box and 
taking from it the picture she had cherished through 
all her sorrow. Victoria took it mechanically and 
gave it a glance. “But this is not Mr. Webster,” 
she said, and sank back in her chair, almost losing 
consciousness, while the baby slipped from her lap 
to the floor, and Violet Lee uttered a cry of wild 
despair. Struggling with, her faintness Victoria 
tried to speak again, but could only whisper to 
herself: “Not Mr. Webster, no, no, not my 
friend.” 

“Then I am more shamefully betrayed than 
ever,” cried Violet, “then there is no hope that I 
shall ever see him again.” 

This little ray of hope had lingered in her heart 
though all — that he would yet come back to her — 
that she should see him and love him once again. 
Now this little beam of comfort was blotted out, 
and all her woes surged back upon her in an over- 
whelming tide. 

The joy of one was the deeper woe of the other, 
a woe which Victoria tried in vain to soften or 
subdue. She could hardly realize her own relief 
until she was away from Violet, or feel it right to 
listen to the voice in her own soul that bade her 
rejoice. 


326 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


Even when removed from the sight of Violet’s 
misery, her own joy was tempered by the remem- 
brance of it. Still that joy was deep and full — 
made up largely of the element of thankfulness, 
that one so much loved had not proved himself so 
utterly unworthy as she had thought. 

She resolved to go home the next day, to unde- 
ceive Lizelle, and to make the needed explanations 
to her parents, leaving .Richard Savage to ascer- 
tain if possible who the man was who had person- 
ated Mr. Webster, and caused her such unspeak- 
able sorrow. 


CHAPTER XXX 


ERNEST EARLY 

Of that man we now go back to tell. Ernest 
Early was the only son of a wealthy and fashion- 
able mother who took great pride in rearing him 
as a young man of fashion. He had the misfor- 
tune to lose his father when a child. This father 
was a man of ability, education, and integrity, who 
had amassed a fortune by old-time methods of care- 
ful commerce, and who had no desire to make an 
ostentatious display of his money. 

Conservative in his tastes, and careful in his ex- 
penditures, he preferred to live modestly, and was 
averse to display. The home was one of plain 
old fashioned elegance, with none of the gilt and 
glare, which mark the too magnificent homes of 
parvenus. It stood in what had once been a fash- 
ionable quarter of the city, but was now being de- 
serted by the class which had built up its plain 
substantial mansions, for streets where new palaces 
vied with each other in more modern splendor. 

Mr. Early would perhaps have followed his old 
327 


328 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


friends in time, had he lived, dragged on by an 
ambitious wife, but at the time of his death he had 
never entertained the idea, although he well knew 
the anxiety of his wife for this change. 

But he had not been long dead, before his wife 
made the change she desired, and it was in a new 
and very elaborate up-town home that Ernest 
passed his boyhood. He was much indulged by 
his mother from infancy, and as he grew to boy- 
hood became self-willed and despotic. Like too 
many American children he took things into his 
own hands at an early age, and did as he pleased. 

When a mere boy he was sent to Germany to 
be educated, his mother having imbibed the idea 
that only in that way could genuine culture be 
attained, by boys who had the misfortune to be 
born on this side of the Atlantic. Perhaps she 
was somewhat relieved to be rid of the responsi- 
bility of looking out for him longer, or felt her own 
unfitness for the task. 

With two or three companions of his own age, 
he was thus set adrift upon life, at an age when 
he needed the most wise and careful watching, and 
the tenderest mother love. There was nothing 
naturally vicious about the boy. He inherited 
many of the substantial traits of his father’s char- 
acter, especially his integrity and scorn of any- 


EARNEST EARLY 329 

thing base or underhanded. But he had had no 
real foundations of morals laid. No great stress 
had been placed upon Duty, no great respect for 
law and order inculcated, no reverence for what 
is most sacred had been instilled into his mind. 
Like thousands of other ignorant or thoughtless 
parents, his mother had expected him to come by 
these things naturally, with no especial training 
upon her part. She called herself a religious 
woman. She belonged to a fashionable church 
and never questioned any of the teachings she heard 
there. She had taken Ernest with her to its ser- 
vices when convenient, and he had heard the usual 
doctrines expounded in a perfunctory manner, by 
a fashionable clergyman, who would have con- 
sidered it extremely bad taste to bring anything 
unpleasant into his pulpit. He spoke of heaven 
in brilliant generalizations, and pointed out an 
easy way of getting there, by simply believing a 
few things which he preached about Sabbath after 
Sabbath, stripping them of everything hard and 
trying to the selfish nature of man, and reducing 
them to a sort of formless pulp which would slip 
easily down any throat. He expounded hell too, 
in the same nerveless manner, and its terrors did 
not take hold very deeply of the hearts of his 
hearers, there being always left open this conven- 


380 


FENCING IVITH SH^DQIVS 


ient way of escape which it was his business in life 
to point out. 

Ernest paid but slight attention to anything he 
heard there, never questioning its truth as many 
more earnest natures would have done, but simply 
taking no interest whatever in it, or considering it 
of any practical importance to himself. So, un- 
fortified by any strong religious principle, or by 
any systematic ethical teaching whatever, he was 
thrust out into all the temptations which beset 
youth, at a tender age, with no friendly voice to 
warn, and no firm hand to restrain. 

He followed the course of life pointed out by 
his companions. He fell into the university vices 
almost without a struggle. To smoke and to drink 
beer, seemed to the students as natural as to eat 
and sleep, and with no inherited taste for these 
things Ernest accepted them as a matter of course. 
To sit at beer tables, to breathe the smoke which 
rose in clouds around him, and to listen to the 
profanity and obscenity which issued from nearly 
every lip, soon became his every day habit. Ern- 
est did not enjoy this sort of life — there was 
something delicate about the lad that was hurt by 
it, and at first he often left his companions in dis- 
gust; but he was a stranger in a strange land, lost 
and homesick, and with no other human compan- 


EARNEST EARLY 


331 


ionship open to him, but that of these fellow stu- 
dents. He was not a hard student, and did not 
take that engrossing interest in his books which 
might have saved him. He read what pleased his 
fancy, took great pleasure in music and spent a 
good deal of time in its practice, studied what was 
absolutely necessary to retain a standing in his 
classes, and then found himself with a great deal 
of time on his hands, which must be killed in some 
manner. 

After several years of such life he returned to 
New York, with the tastes which might be expected 
of a 3^oung man so placed at the formative period 
of his life. His mother was shocked at his taste for 
low life, and at his indisposition for the society she 
had expected him to grace. Of ladies’ society he 
had seen nothing abroad. He had with other stu- 
dents been much in the company of the lowe 
class of girls in the university town where he had 
lived. Wandering around the streets at night, in 
the company of older students, and going with 
them to places of resort, he had met with girls 
of the lower class who were glad to take 
up with the society of students, and with these 
he soon felt at home, and met on familiar 
terms all through his residence there. The 
unrestraint of this sort of acquaintance with 


332 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


women spoils a man for the society of a 
more exacting class, and when Ernest returned 
to New York he fell naturally into such society 
again. Going about one evening with a companion 
who like himself had been drinking freely, they 
saw two handsome girls a little in advance of 
them, to whom his companion proposed to intro-, 
duce him. They were clerks in a large store near 
by, on their way to their lodgings. Ernest who 
still maintained a tradition of respectability, and 
who had great respect for his mother’s feelings in 
regard to his conduct, usually used ^another name 
than his own, upon similar occasions, and his 
companion inquired by what name he should call 
him. Giving the first high sounding one that came 
into his head, he said: ^‘Mr. Wirt Webster,’’ and 
they both laughed gaily, as the great lawyer’s 
name was familiar to almost all classes of New 
York society. 

He thought of nothing but an evening’s esca- 
pade, but he would not have done so reckless and 
unprincipled a thing had he been really himself at 
the time. He was so much pleased with Violet 
Lee, and with what his companion told him about 
her, that the evening’s acquaintance did not end 
there, and he still had to maintain the false position 
he had placed himself in, during his continued ac- 


EARNEST EARLY 


333 


quaintance with her. She was so proud, and sen- 
sitive, that he did not dare to undeceive her though 
he often desired to do so. 

She was a very beautiful and also a particularly 
charming girl, and he always treated her with per- 
fect respect. 

She had always held herself high, and had con- 
sequently few acquaintances who knew or heard 
of her meetings with the young man. In a short 
time she had become completely fascinated with 
Ernest, and he scarcely less so with her. At first 
no thought of evil dealing was in his heart, more 
than in hers. He even told his mother about the 
beautiful girl and of his fondness for her, a very 
unusual piece of confidence upon his part, which 
was received with such an outburst of scorn and 
anger, that he never ventured to confide in her 
again. She made it plain enough to him what the 
world would think of his folly, and how it would 
affect his relations with her, to put all thoughts of 
honorable marriage out of his head. 

Indeed if truth be told he did not much care for 
marriage himself. But in the first flush of his 
passion for Violet Lee he might easily have been 
led into new and better ways, had he had a wise 
and unselfish mother who understood her son’s 
nature. But she cared little that he led a fast 


334 FENCING IViTH SHADOIVS 

and reckless life, in comparison with what she 
would have cared if he had made a plebeian mar- 
riage. 

There was little disgrace attaching to the first 
course in the circles with which she mingled, while 
the latter was apparently the one unpardonable 
sin. 

No matter what career of riotous dissipation her 
son led, if he did not get into open disgrace in his 
own set, she could easily find some fair and virtuous 
girl who would marry him for the asking, and 
whose parents would approve the match. This 
she wished to undertake at once, but Ernest had 
no disposition to be thus conveniently disposed of. 
If he did not marry Violet Lee, it was pretty cer- 
tain he would marry no one else while his infatu- 
ation lasted. He had gained considerable momen- 
tum in vice by this time, and he- now went on in 
its courses with accelerated speed. His better im- 
pulses were soon overpowed by his baser, and the 
result was what we have already seen. 

To escape the reproaches and entreaties which 
were irksome to him, he had left the city, and 
gone on a long tour to the far West, falling lower 
and lower day by day. 

He had tried to give money to Violet, as he had 
tried to give her costly presents, during his earlier 


EARNEST EARLY 


335 


acquaintance with her, but she had indignantly 
refused both. She had scarcely a keepsake that 
had come from him. Although he felt thoroughly 
guilty and remorseful, it did not lead to any 
amendment of his life, and several months passed, 
in one continual round o£ folly and dissipation, 
during which time he had heard no word of Violet 
Lee, and knew nothing of her wretched fate. • 

She knew that he had left the city, but had no 
knowledge of his whereabouts. It is doubtful if 
she would have availed herself of that knowledge 
had it been hers, to hold any further communi- 
cation with him. She would have scorned his 
pecuniary assistance just as fiercely now, as she 
had ever done, and would have had all, or nothing, 
at his hands. 

But she had never ceased to love him with the 
most devoted affection, and would never cease 
while her life lasted. She had a nature so passion- 
ately intense, that it was beyond the control of her 
reason. She tried to despise, to hate, this man, 
to cast him out of her thought forever, but she 
never succeeded even for an hour in doing so.‘ 
She desired nothing in life but his presence, his 
smile, his word of approval — his love. She knew 
it had been hers. She never doubted the sincerity 
of his devotion, she only felt how weak its power 


336 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


had been over him, beside the chains which cus- 
tom and depravity had woven around him. Some- 
times she thought that he would return to her, 
but more often she was in a mood of utter despair. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


A NIGHT RIDE. 

It was in the midst of this career of dissipation 
and folly that Ernest Early found himself one 
evening, in the spring, in one of those towns in 
Montana where gamblers and fast men of all des- 
criptions abounded, in whose congenial society he 
passed his days and nights. He had grown utterly 
reckless now, and seldom paused to look back, 
to think what might have been, or to look forward 
toward what inevitably must be. He simply passed 
his days in the excitement of the adventurous and 
dangerous life upon which he had entered, caring 
little now for the restraints of the old home ties, 
which for many years had led him to cover up his 
errors with a thin veil of respectability, and caring 
less and less every year for the restraints of that 
conscience whose claims he had neglected so long, 
that its edge had become dulled, and now seldom 
cut him sharply, whatever he did or did not do. 

In this frontier town he found many boon com- 
panions, some of them of as good birth and breed- 
337 


22 


338 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


ing as himself, who had thrown away just as bril- 
liant chances as he had done, and who were as 
recklessly expending the few years of youth and 
promise which yet remained to them. They told 
him nothing of their former lives, and he told them 
nothing. There was yet remaining in them that 
one spark of honor, which spared the families they 
had left, the disgrace which would have attached 
to a knowledge of their whereabouts, and of their 
condition. Very few retained their real names, 
or talked of their former lives with any degree of 
freedom or truth. 

Like Ernest Early many of them might have 
drawn the highest prizes of life, had they only 
avoided the ways of the tempter in early youth. 
But fashion'able life had been too much for these 
petted favorites of fortune. As mere boys they 
had entered upon its career of dissipation, becom- 
ing more and more infatuated with it as time went 
by, until they had gone beyond the bounds which 
even fashionable society sets to vice, and had be- 
come the social outcasts whose last resort was a 
gambling town in Montana. Of late Ernest Early 
had been drinking heavily, and upon this wild 
December evening even more heavily than was his 
wont. A fearful storm was raging without, and a 
Montana snow-storm is not a cheerful thing to 


A NIGHT RIDE 


339 


encounter. So this little group of strangers and 
wayfarers had spent the most of the day, and the 
long evening, in a saloon and gambling resort, 
together. They were weary of each other’s so- 
ciety, for this sort of life is not as hilarious as it is 
often pictured, and they found the long hours of 
their idle days utterly monotonous and dismal. 
Any charm which this mode of existence might 
once have possessed had long since palled upon 
them, and they continued to lead it from sheer 
desperation, and the force of habit. A more 
wretched man than Ernest Early when not tem- 
porarilly excited with drink, it would be hard to 
find anywhere. Disgust with himself, with the 
life he had elected to lead, with the companions of 
his days, with everything in life, filled his soul. 
He had no pleasure in sin, but he had no strength 
to desert the paths upon which he had entered 
ignorantly in his youth, and whose direful end he 
could see so clearly now in his saner moments. 
From sheer weariness of evil he was sometimes 
tempted to desert her, but when he made an effort 
to do so he quickly discovered in what strong chains 
she had bound him. To-day he had been more 
miserable than ever. The dismal mining town, 
the dreary storm, the detested companions, all had 
wrought upon him, until in complete desperation 


340 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


he had kept on drinking, hoping to reach forget- 
fulness by that route, at least for a season. 

At midnight he started to leave the saloon and 
find his hotel, being almost overcome by the effects 
of his potations. At the door stood a horse which 
had been left there during all these long dreadful 
hours by his inhuman master who was drinking 
within. A little gleam of humanity in the heart of 
this desperate man prompted him to jump into 
the sleigh and drive the horse to the hotel where 
he would have him cared for. Seizing the reins 
in a feeble and nerveless way, the horse was started. 
Losing sight then of his purpose he dropped the 
reins in his lap and the horse started off at its own 
free will. Going a little distance thus, Ernest 
perceived the state of the case, rallied a little, and 
began guiding the horse once more. But his 
brain was too heavy and he simply drove at random 
here and there. At last a mad freak seized upon 
him, and he drove the horse down upon the rail- 
road track, now covered with the falling snow. 
Here all purpose seemed to desert him again, and 
the horse was allowed to go about as he pleased. 
In a short time he had passed over the smooth 
track away from the town, and out into the open 
country. The lights of the city Were left behind, 
and they went on into the face of the cruel wind. 


.i NIGHT RIDE 


341 


The track was built up here several feet above the 
level of the country, and upon each side yawned 
the dreadful chasm, half filled with snow. It is a 
wild region. The Rocky Mountains have cleft the 
country in twain, and wild gorges and frightful 
ravines yawn in every direction. A mad river 
dashes through its canons, hundreds of feet below, 
and every wild and untamed caprice of nature, 
seems here to have found a vent. A little farther 
south lies the marvelous Yellowstone country, the 
wonder-spot of the earth, and even as far north as 
this Montana town, the whole land seems to have 
been torn and twisted by the hands of some de- 
moniac Designer. There is something uncanny in 
the spot. Ernest Early had hated the country 
since he first set foot in it, some two months ago. 
He promised himself every day to get out of it, 
but still stayed on. By daylight this line of the 
railroad was a frightful place. He knew it well, 
and had never passed over it without a shudder. 
In the dimness of this stormy night he could not 
see its horrors, but coming to himself somewhat, 
from the cold and the rapid motion, he realized 
where he was, and vivid imagination supplied the 
details. They were at least two miles down the 
track before he knew where he was, and upon the 
highest part of the grade. He roused himself with 


542 


FENCING IVITH SHy4DOlVS 


a shudder and looked about. He could see little 
for the blinding snow, but one or two landmarks 
told him where they were. He did not dare med' 
die with the reins. The horse which had brought 
him safely thus far, could be trusted to keep the 
track, better than his hands could guide him. He 
was perfectly sober now, and realized the situation 
in its most minute details. Aloft in air, with 
yawning depths on either side he must continue 
this awful ride for he knew not what distance. 
The cold was fearful, and his face cut to the bone 
by the icy sleet. His feet were numb, and the 
very blood in his veins seemed congealed. He 
beat his arms wildly together to keep them from 
freezing, and stamped with his feet in vain to re- 
store warmth. 

On and on they went in the teeth of the blizzard 
for a time that seemed interminable, to the 
affrighted man. A train might be upon them at 
any moment. He knew that the midnight ex- 
press was due about this time. He did not feel 
sure whether it had arrived before they left 
the city or not. But these storms always delayed 
the trains and he had little hope that it had done so. 
He listened in agonized expectation, thinking to 
hear it each instant. But the wild roar of the 
storm deadened all other sounds, and he felt that 


A NIGHT RIDE 


343 


he should not know it until it was upon him. He 
watched the telegraph poles as they dashed by, 
each one passed he felt brought him a little nearer 
to his dreadful doom. He saw the monstrous 
engine with its face of fire coming toward him in 
the darkness, as vividly in imagination, as he could 
ever see it in reality, and he braced himself to meet 
the shock with an involuntary movement of the 
body. Perhaps it would come from behind. He 
speculated almost coolly upon this probability, 
and decided that it would come from the front; that 
he should see it a long way up the straight white 
track, and that he would jump over into the abyss 
when it got near. 

He would be buried in the snow there, and no 
human being would ever know his fate. When 
the snow melted they would find his bones, and 
wonder who the poor fellow had been — but they 
would never know. He was glad they would not 
know. Still, he continued to muse, it would be 
some comfort to his family to be sure that he was 
dead. He groaned aloud as he thought of this 
sudden end to his reckless career. He had never 
consciously abjured the religion of his youth, 
though he had disregarded all its precepts, and now 
in the midst of his extremity he suddenly recalled 
the teachings of the church he had scorned and 


844 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


neglected. He saw the future of the soul, whose 
existence he had never denied or doubted, and it 
was painted in all the most lurid color of which 
the imagination of man can conceive. He remem- 
bered the sermons he had heard in his youth, and 
the belief of the mother whom he had loved, and 
he felt that his doom was sealed both for time and 
for eternity. The horror of his situation was in- 
creased tenfold if that were possible. 

Banished throughout eternity from all he had 
loved, made to dwell forever with the wretches 
whose society he had sought of late, doomed to 
unending years of misery like this — oh his heart 
broke at the dreadful thought. He cried aloud in 
his anguish, and promised God if he would deliver 
him, to give every moment of his spared life to 
the work of repentance and expiation. 

He could see now that had he thrown pride to 
the winds and married Violet in those early days of 
his love, as his heart prompted, that he might 
have had a fair chance of a virtuous and happy 
life, even with the start he had then made on the 
downward way. Her sweetness and her beauty 
would have held him, had he been irrevocably 
bound to her, he knew. But the shame and sor- 
row her reproachful gaze had always caused him 
after she had found out his true character, had sent 


A NIGHT RIDE 


345 


him from het even while he loved her, and after 
deserting her there had been no tie to restrain. 

His madness in the whole matter inspired him 
now with wonder. What would the wounded 
pride of his mother at a mesalliance have been, 
compared to what she must have suffered from the 
course he had taken, he asked himself — not for the 
first time. He thought gently of that mother now 
in this dreadful time; and with a bitterness of 
anguish which no words can describe, of Violet 
and the child, he had never seen. Such remorse 
had never filled his soul before, though he thought 
he knew the full meaning of that dreadful word. 
Then he ceased to look within for a moment and 
gazed about him. The tall dark pines growing on 
the edge of the ravine looked ghostly in their white 
drapery, their ragged branches creaked in the 
fierce wind, and broke and fell at intervals crashing 
into the abyss below. It made him shudder to 
see the depth to which they fell. Even thus should 
he go down when the final moment came, down, 
down, down, to his hideous doom. He held his 
breath as one does in sleep, hanging over some 
dread abyss. Oh, if he could but cry out and 
awaken, as he had often done from some such 
frightful dream ! But there would be no awaken- 
ing from this dread vision of sudden death. 


846 


FENCING fVITH SHADOIVS 


All at once he sees the locomotive head- 
light in the white distance, and paralyzed with 
terror, hardly comprehends the fact that they are 
close to a station, whose light shines out upon 
their way. But the splendid horse knows it, and 
waiting for no hand to guide, he turns where the 
ground had been built up to meet the track, and 
with one mad dash rushes down the slope just as 
the midnight express crashes along the track. 
Ernest is thrown from the sleigh, but unharmed 
gathers himself up, and throws his arms around 
the neck of the brave horse which had paused the 
instant he felt the sleigh upset, and waited for the 
man which he supposed to be the master, who had 
left him to endure the violence of this dreadful 
storm, while he caroused in his accustomed haunts. 

The reaction of intense feeling leaves him so 
weak that he falls to the ground unconscious, as 
the station agent approaches him, and it is long 
before he can be brought back to a realization of 
his present surroundings. When he is first roused 
he thinks himself in another world, and calls 
wildly upon God for one more chance. Being 
soothed and at last convinced that he is still alive 
and in no immediate danger of death, he pours out 
his thankfulness in a torrent of passionate words, 
which astonish and bewilder the man who bends 
, over him. 


I 


A NIGHT RIDE 


347 


It is something between a prayer and a psalm 
that he utters, it is a pean of thanksgiving, and a 
prayer for forgiveness, and a promise of amend- 
ment. Somewhere, back of the worldliness of his 
father, and the folly of his mother, there had been 
in his family the spirit of the devotee, and a strain 
of that blood was in the veins of Ernest Early. 

His early impressions of the church had been 
so chilling, his instruction there so meager, he had 
withdrawn himeslf so entirely from its influence 
for many years, that this latent genius for religion, 
had never been suspected by himeslf and would 
have been scoffed at incredulously by his friends, 
but it was there, and only a crisis had been neces- 
sary to develop it. He could think of nothing as 
his strength returned save this only. He must 
make reparation for all wrongs done, and he was 
in haste to set about it, he must seek forgiveness of 
his sins, he must devote his whole remaining life 
to works meet for repentance. Until morning 
dawned he lay there resolving these things in his 
mind, and calling upon God for forgiveness with 
almost every breath. The man who remained with 
him thought his dreadful ride had crazed him. 
He sought only to soothe and quiet him. But his 
storm tossed soul could not be quieted with words. 

When morning came he was driven back to the 


348 


FENCING PVITH SH^DOM^S 


city, where he shut himself in his room, and re- 
fused admittance to all who came. His excitement 
of mind continued all day and when evening came 
he had found no relief. He was still calling upon 
God and promising amendment. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


REPENTANCE. 

Next evening, the priest who was holding a mis- 
sion in one of the churches of this wild and wicked 
city, was considerably astonished at the close of 
his address, to have a stranger advance to the very 
altar’s rail and say brokenly: “Pray for me.^^ 
The priest glanced at the handsome but dissipated 
looking face, haggard now with awful suffering, 
and thought the man before him was guilty of 
some fearful crime, the enormity of which he had 
just realized. The prayer ended, he dismissed the 
congregation, and came at once to the side of 
Ernest Early who remained motionless on his 
knees. “You wish to talk with me, brother 
“Yes, and to confess my sin to you/’ 

“Come with me.” When they were alone to- 
gether, Ernest told the story of his last night’s ex- 
perience, briefly, graphically, interrupted once or 
twice by sobs. When he had finished the priest 
said: “You feel that God has given you time to 
repent 


349 


350 


FENCING mm SHADOIVS 


“Oh, I have repented in awful agony. I do re- 
pent more earnestly each instant, but I do not 
know what to do further.’’ 

“Why do you come to me.^’ Are you of the 
church 

“I am of no church, but I want to confess fully 
before God and man all the sins of my life. I 
feel as if that must be the first step. Therefore I 
come to you rather than to another. Partly too, 
perhaps, to see if you can not help me more than 
those I used to listen to. Their cool indifference 
would drive me mad now, I think. I must have 
help of God, and right speedily too, or I am lost. 
Oh, the horror of the thoughts I have been haunted 
with these many hours. Pray for me, for I pray 
for myself in vain.” 

The priest calmed and soothed him in the gen- 
tlest manner, and told him at last to unburden his 
heart of all that lay heavy upon it. 

At this Ernest began with his earliest youth and 
told the full tale of his wayward life. 

The priest had heard many confessions, but never 
one so heart-felt as this, he well knew. He felt 
the tenderest pity for the young man, whom he 
firmly believed had been miraculously saved from 
a dreadful doom. He soothed his excitement by 
repeating to him the promises of God to the repent- 


REPENTANCE 


351 


ant sinner. But Ernest could not be satisfied 
with words. He wanted to do something, to have 
some heavy cross laid upon him — he desired to 
expiate his sin, and to feel that he was forgiven. 

The horror he had gone through was still fresh 
upon him, and he could not bear to go out from 
the presence of the priest for fear of being assailed 
anew by the fearful terrors he had undergone. 
Doubtless those terrors had some element of de- 
lirium in them, and perhaps his present excitement 
was not far removed from that condition, but he 
was sufficiently under the control of reason to 
make his purpose to repent and reform a fixed one, 
and to lead him to wish to set at once about mak- 
ing such atonement as he could for his more fla- 
grant sins. 

Under the persuasive speech of the old priest 
he gradually grew calmer and before he left him 
with the promise to renew his visit in the morn- 
ing, the wildness of his manner had measurably 
left him. 

He remained in close intercourse with the priest 
for many days, gradually attaining a calmness and 
peace of mind to which he had long been a 
stranger. He had pledged himself and he was very 
impatient to fulfill that pledge, to go at once to 
New York, to seek Violet Lee and to make her all 


352 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


the reparation in his power. For the other sins 
of his wasted and dishonored life he did penance 
in his own soul hour by hour, and covenanted to 
do deeds meet for repentance through all the years 
of his life. He dreaded to take himself from the 
kindly presence of the old priest, though he had the 
utmost confidence in his own strength to resist the 
outward temptations which would assail him. 
His horror of his former life was so great, that he 
could not believe in the possibility of a relapse 
into old ways. 

But the priest, who had seen much of human 
suffering and human guilt, felt far less confidence 
than he, and warned him continually against plac- 
ing himself in the presence of temptation. 

“I have known those as sincerely repentant and 
as strong as you, to fall,” he would say to him, 
“but not as long as they kept themselves in godly 
company, and in the fear of the Lord. But be- 
ware of glancing aside from the straight way. 
Devils will beset you the moment you look in their 
direction. Keep you eye fixed on the Cross, and 
they have no power over you.’^ 

The priest said little to him of the doctrines of 
the church, and Ernest took little interest in them 
as yet. He was a man in a terrible strait, and he 
wanted a guide out of it, and he took the hand of 


REPENTANCE 


353 


the first man he met, and clung to it instinctively. 
Whoever could point him to forgiveness, and to 
the way of salvation from his dreadful sin — to that 
man would he hold, place himself under his direc- 
tions and follow where he led. He had been 
very fortunate in his selection of a guide, as he 
felt ever after; but just now he felt almost like 
bowing down to the good man in worshipful rever- 
ence, so great was the service he felt had been done 
him,, and so unspeakable the thankfuleess which 
filled his heart for the hope which had been granted 
him. 

He would have remained here long — he felt like 
remaining always — had he not felt the stress of 
his duty to Violet Lee. Sometimes when he 
thought of the possibility that he might be too 
late, he was frozen with horror, and determined 
to start at once. But the great comfort of the old 
priest’s love and fatherly kindness, held him, con- 
strained him to stay, to receive yet a fuller bless- 
ing at his hands. 

In the midst of this delay, he was greatly moved 
one night to see on the register of his hotel the 
name of Wirt Webster. He had never met the 
man, but he felt acutely now the wrong he had 
done him, and the need he had of his forgiveness. 
So as one of the first of his outward penances he 


B54 


FENCING fVlTH SHADOIVS 


determined to confess his fault to this man of the 
world, and to beg him to pardon the wrong done. 
That the ordeal was a severe one to a proud and 
spirited man, no one can doubt. The bare im- 
agination of it filled the soul of Ernest with dread. 

Mr. Webster having found no pleasure or relief 
in travel had concluded not to sail from San Fran- 
cisco, but to spend a little time in seeing the won- 
ders of the Pacific Coast, and the great West, and 
then to return home. He had lingered for a few 
weeks amid the enchantments of California, had 
run over Oregon and Washington, and by chance 
stopped for a few days in this wild Montana country. 
He had recognized Ernest at once as a New Yorker 
he had sometimes seen, but with whom he had no 
personal acquaintance. He was not in the mood 
for seeking new acquaintances, although it was so 
lonely, and forlorn, in this strange country. He 
had spent a most unhappy season, and had not as 
yet found any distraction from his dark thoughts 
in new scenes or among new people, as he had 
hoped. 

His mind was always back among those he had 
left, and it made little difference that his body was 
far away. He had now concluded to return to 
New York and to resume his old way of life. He 
would bury himself once more in business, try to 


REPENTANCE 


855 


gratify his ambition, and forswear all thought of 
love and marriage forever. 

Yet he would hardly have yielded the pleasure 
that had been, to be rid of the pain that now re- 
mained with him. The portion of time he had 
spent in his vain dream would always be very dear 
to his memory. He was astonished at the power 
which his love had established over him. He could 
not recognize in himself the calm cold man of a 
few months ago. He dreamed often of Kloster- 
heim and was always happy there as of old. He 
saw the gabled house, the majestic trees, the 
shaven lawn, the rustic bridge, the wide beautiful 
river, the distant mountains, whenever he closed 
his eyes, with the distinctness of reality; and al- 
ways in the foreground Victoria, with her clear- 
cut face and graceful but majestic figure. He re- 
called every detail of her dress at different times, 
the flowers she often wore, or carried in her hands as 
they walked through the woods, the wide brimmed 
hat which hung upon her arm — nothing was lost 
to him, everything was graven upon his brain. 

The thought of Aubrey had not yet left his 
mind. He tormented himself daily by imagining 
him still with her at Klosterheim, winning her 
favor if he had not already done so, or basking in 
the sweetness of her smile if he had. He thought 


356 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


the artist must have been very confident of his own 
power, or had an acknowledged standing there 
already, to resign Victoria so much into his hands 
during his summer visits. But he persuaded him- 
self anew that nothing could have been known at 
that time as Mr. Armstrong would have informed 
him. He knew not what to think. Each new 
supposition made him more unhappy than the last. 
He was glad he did not go to Europe, he could 
not have borne his mother’s questioning eyes. 

Buried in these gloomy thoughts he was startled 
to be accosted the day after his arrival, by Ernest 
Early, who introduced himself and begged for an 
interview. Rather ungraciously he granted it, 
supposing that the wild young man, for such he 
knew him to be, had been gambling away his 
money, in this fast frontier town, and wanted some 
advance from him. He inwardly braced himself 
to refuse the request, whatever it might be, feeling 
that whatever mone)^ might be given the young 
man would be thrown after that already wasted. 
As he passed with Ernest into the room indicated 
for the interview, he glanced critically at his face, 
and knew in a moment that he had mistaken the 
state of the case. A week or two of sobriety, and 
of great stress of mind, had changed the man’s 
face greatly. He was very pale, and had a trem- 


REPENTy4NCE 


357 


ulous apprehensive look, like a man whose nerves 
are unstrung, or who feels himself in danger. 

Mr. Webster felt at once that the young man 
had met some crisis in his fate, and was under 
the sway of some deep emotion. He could not 
imagine why he should wish to speak to him of his 
troubles whatever they might be. When they 
were seated, Ernest began by giving him in a few 
words the story of his reckless life in New York, 
and of the use he had made of his name, in a wicked 
and shameful matter. He spoke with great diffi- 
culty, almost overcome by the sense of the enor- 
mity of his offense. 

Mr. Webster listened with the fierce anger he 
felt sending the blood to his face in torrents. He 
interrupted once or twice with some exclamation 
of incredulous amazement, as the lengths to which 
the deception had been carried were unfolded to 
him; but he controlled himself and heard the 
story through, even to the narrative of the change 
which had come over the young man, and to his 
wild plea for forgiveness of the wrong. He paid 
no attention whatever to this plea, but as soon as 
Ernest had told his story, poured out upon him 
the full vials of his wrath in bitter denunciation. 
The blood had receded from his face now, and he 
was ghastly white, as he towered over Ernest, 


358 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


burning up with unspeakable indignation. Ernest 
received every word as though it was his due, and 
less than he had expected, though he was a man 
of spirit himself, and would quickly have resented 
an unjust accusation, even now in his exaggerated 
humility. 

When Mr. Webster had spent himself in bitter 
biting speech, Ernest found a chance to say: 
“You can say nothing of my conduct, Mr. Web- 
ster, which I do not endorse. Now that I am in 
my right mind, it looks to me even blacker than 
it can to you. It seems presumptuous to beg for- 
giveness for such baseness, but imagine if you can 
what the state of my mind is to-day, and how 
sorely I need the assurance that I crave. If ever 
a man repented before God, sir, I am that man, 
and I hope for his forgiveness. And I am sure 
that you will not refuse me this comfort when you 
know how I suffer.’’ 

He advanced toward Mr. Webster as he spoke, 
and in spite of the scornful silence which that gen- 
tleman maintained threw his arms about him and 
leaned his head upon his shoulder. 

Mr. Webster drew back almost with a shudder, 
but the tears started to his eyes, and he did not 
repulse him as he was at first inclined to do. He 
could not bring himself at once to utter the words 


REPENTANCE 


850 


for which Ernest begged so piteously. But at last 
when he comprehended the real agony of the man 
before him, and the great stress he laid upon hav- 
ing those words uttered, he said, not without 
emotion: ‘‘I forgive you, and I pray God may 
forgive you also.” Then Ernest completely ex- 
hausted by emotion sank into a chair, the tears 
raining over his face. 

‘‘Oh, you cannot know how much it is to me, 
Mr. Webster. Now I may even hope for the for- 
giveness of one, v/ronged still more deeply. Oh^ 
if you only knew how hideous my life appears to 
me now, how wretched, how wicked, how profane, 
you would pity me I am sure. How can a man 
waste himself so in his youth.^ But I am still 
young, and I promise myself to redeem my life 
yet.” 

“You shall certainly have my help, if you will 
try. Early,” said Mr. Webster, himself once more, 
“and I beg your pardon for my violence just now. 
It was ungentlemanly, and unjust to one who was 
trying to make a reparation. I am much ashamed 
of myself.” * 

“You were quite right. One could not hear of 
such a wrong as that, in quiet. You were no 
harder on me than I deserved. But I am changed 
now, * I beg you to believe it, Mr. Webster. It 
will comfort me more than I can tell.” 


360 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


‘4 do believe it, and in proof of my belief I offer 
you my friendship, and all the assistance I can 
render you, at any time/^ 

“Would you care to hear of the experience 
which brought me to myself, Mr. Webster.^^ You 
may find it difficult to trust me, until you know 
just how I have been stirred, and how truly I feel 
that I have help higher than that of man?” 

“If you wish me to know, I shall very gladly 
hear what you have to tell me. But do not distress 
yourself — I am quite willing to believe in your new 
purpose without further proof, Mr. Early.” 

But Ernest was glad of a listener, and told once 
more the terrible tale of his night ride, and the 
agonies of mind he had endured. He was greatly 
moved by the narration especially when he came 
to tell of his visit to Father Riley, and all the 
counsel and help he had received at his hands. 

Mr. Webster was almost as much stirred by the 
story, as the narrator himself, but listened in silence 
until the entire tale had been told. 

“It certainly seems a miraculous escape in more 
senses than one,” he said when it was over. 

“Oh, it was clearly the hand of God pulling me 
back from destruction,” said Ernest fervently, “I 
should be worse than an infidel to doubt his special 
interposition, should I not? And he must have 


REPENTANCE 


361 


saved me for some good end. He expects some- 
thing of me, and I must make it the study of my 
life to do his will. I have no other purpose now. 
I can never have any other purpose than to study 
to know the way.’^ 

Mr. Webster was far from being a believer in 
these “special providences” as they are called, but 
he felt that it would be wrong to cast the slightest 
doubt regarding this one, over the mind of Ernest, 
so he said simply: 

“You have time to redeem the past, and to do 
much useful work in the world. You are young 
yet, and all the best years are before you.” 

“Yes, that is a great comfort. I shall have much 
time to do works of expiation, and many years in 
which to make atonement to poor Violet for all 
her sorrow. Oh, I must hasten to her at once. 
I must let nothing keep me from her.” 

“If you are going at once to New York we might 
journey together. I start to-morrow for home. 
I have had all I want of the great West.” 

Mr. Webster said this, not feeling any desire for 
the companionship mentioned, but that he thought 
his society might be something of a protection of 
Early against himself. He was far from feeling 
that perfect confidence in the latter's entire re- 
generation which Ernest himself felt, and he was 


362 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


willing to strengthen him if he could. If he could 
get him safely to New York, and accomplish his 
honorable marriage to the woman he had wronged, 
he should feel that he had done a good deal toward 
his real salvation from vice and all its deadly con- 
sequences. 

Some doubts of the continuance of his religious 
fervor naturally came into Mr. Webster’s mind 
for he had seen much of the world and its emotion- 
al religion, and had known many fervent souls to 
fall away, when the real test of fierce. temptation 
came. But he was sincerely anxious in this case to 
encourage the wrongdoer to perform every effec- 
tive penance, to cherish every cheering belief, and 
to keep his faith in the personal care and watch- 
fulness of God, burning at its brightest. 

Ernest never discovered but that his new friend 
was entirely in accord with his own belief in these 
matters, so careful was Mr. Webster to lay no 
stumbling block in his way. If the man had some- 
how gotten a belief which would change his life, 
that was the thing of real importance, and that he 
had done so, became more firmly impressed upon 
Mr. Webster’s mind day by day. 

They started on the homeward journey together. 
The confidences which Ernest poured into his ears 
grew very irksome to Mr. Webster before the 


REPENTANCE 


363 


journey was ended, but he showed no signs of 
weariness. He entered with great interest into all 
the plans for the future which Ernest was so busy 
in making. He especially encouraged the one 
which was uppermost in Ernest’s thoughts, that 
of making a home for Violet and himself away 
from the city. 

am so tired of the hateful life of cities,’’ the 
poor fellow would say, “it all seems so loathsome 
and horrible to me now, that I want to get away 
from it to the quiet and peace of the country and 
remain there always. There are lovely villages on 
the Hudson, near enough to New York for as fre- 
quent visits as one wishes to make, where there 
are churches and schools, and a beautiful country 
around, these seem to me to be the places to make 
homes. I shall look for one where there is a 
church near, and a priest I can reverence and love, 
(though there will never be one like the one I have 
left,) and I will build the daintiest little* cottage 
there, and spend my whole time in turning it into 
an earthly Paradise.” 

This was Mr. Webster’s own ideal of a home, 
and he could enter into this plan with real enthu- 
siasm. But it sent his thoughts persistently back 
to Klosterheim, and touched anew the jarring chord 
which rendered his whole life so discordant now. 


364 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


He had himself dreamed these same dreams. 
He had pictured to himself a country home on 
these same banks of the lordly Hudson, not far 
from Klosterheim, where he would spend the re- 
mainder of his life — found a home which might re- 
main to future generations of his blood. Many 
were the visions he had had of such a home, in his 
autumn trips up the River of his Dreams. Many 
the plans he had made in his own mind of what 
and how it should be. 

In going over for the thousandth time in his own 
mind all the details of his intercourse with Vic- 
toria, and the evidences he thought he had of her 
regard, he found himself one night casting about 
again for the reason of her refusal of his love. He 
v/as not a vain man, but the impression of her 
favor had been so strong upon him though founded 
on slight outward evidence, that ever and anon, 
he went over the possible reasons for the change 
which had come over her. Suddenly, this night 
it came upon him that some rumor of his supposed 
connection with Violet Lee, might have come to 
her ears. He knew nothing of the details of that 
affair. He had left the city just at the time when 
it might have been made public. Perhaps he 
should find his name bandied about the streets of 
New York when he reached there. Perhaps Violet 


REPENTANCE 


365 


Lee had somehow come under the eyes of Vic- 
toria or her friends. They were in the part of the 
city where the girl lived, according to Ernest’s 
story. The thought filled him with dismay. He 
could hardly bear the cruel suspense which he must 
endure until he reached home. 

He could scarcely keep up a pretense of civility 
with Ernest. This was a point which had never 
struck his mind before, in regard to the wrong 
Ernest had done him. Good God! Victoria hear 
such things as this of him! Believe them too! He 
chafed in impotent rage at the thought. Such 
primal naked misery as this was quite unknown 
to him. 

He thought that he had suffered in these last 
months, but this torture was incisive, corrosive, 
deadly. At last it came burningly to him that if 
she had been deceived, and had cast him off under 
a misapprehension, that perhaps there was some 
remote hope for him yet, that the final doom of 
his life had not been pronounced. 

At last the dreary journey was ended and the 
two men with their so various purposes stood 
once more in the streets of New York, free to 
seek though they might not find. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


EXPIATION 

A few evenings after Victoria’s visit to her, Vio- 
let Lee sat in the gathering dusk of evening look- 
ing out upon the street. The baby with its arms 
about her neck sought in vain to attract her notice. 
For once, even the sweet dependence of the beau- 
tiful child failed to beguile her, spite of her pas- 
sionate devotion to the winsome little creature. 

Violet’s eyes were turned to the future to-night. 
She saw the long years stretching out before her, 
for she was young and strong, and seemed likely 
to live long in her solitary grief. She could not 
see one flower in all the drear vista, blooming for 
her. She was doomed to a life of isolation, of 
shame, of regret, and all the ordinary sources of 
pleasure in living were closed to her. Even the 
child, the one tie which bound her to life, would be 
a source of unending anxiety and care. As these 
thoughts were passing through her mind, her grasp 
tightened about the child, and the tears rained 
from her eyes. 


366 


EXPIATION 


867 


At that moment a knock was heard upon her 
door. Greatly startled she rose to her feet, but 
hesitated to open the door. She knew that Vic- 
toria had left the city, and she had no other friend 
who ever came to visit her. She was very timid 
and nervous now, though once so strong and brave, 
and she waited until a second knock, louder and 
more imperative than the first, told her she must 
unlock the door. When she did so she was much 
alarmed to soe a gentleman standing there, in the 
semi-darkness of the gathering night. But when 
he addressed her as Violet, and threw his arm 
about her as he stepped into the little hall, she 
gave a low cry of recognition, and almost dropped 
the baby from her arms in her agitation. 

Once within the room, he pressed her and the 
baby together, to his breast, and poured out upon 
them every endearing word, in lavish lover fashion. 

Utterly lost in joy, Violet had no power to utter 
a word, she could only cling to him and sob, as 
he poured out his wild plea for forgiveness, and 
made his solemn promises for the future. It was 
long before she could realize the change which had 
come over her life, could believe in the full fruition 
of all her wildest hopes. But as they sat together 
through that long blissful evening, and he told her 
all the story of his life, all his sin and his repent- 


368 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


ance, all the love he had cherished for her even in 
his degradation, and pictured for her the atone- 
ment he meant to make for the past, the sv^eet 
reality became familiar to her, and her heart threw 
off the burden which had so long oppressed it, and 
sang a new sweet song of thankful praise. The 
hideous past seemed suddenly blotted out, and 
from this time, she ceased to recall it, and lived 
only in the sweet new present. The old life came 
to appear like a frightful dream, from which she 
had happily wakened, and which she could only 
recall by an effort of the will. 

When Violet told him of Victoria and all she 
had done for her, and of the terrible sorrow which 
his deception had caused her, he was deeply moved 
with pity and remorse. By the side of the little 
cradle where the child lay, at last happily sleeping, 
he pledged his whole manhood once more to a 
higher life. 

After a few days of preparation — for he desired 
Violet to be dressed according to her new station, 
and himself selected the entire beautiful outfit — 
they went together to the church of his selection, 
at the hour of noon, and were united in the holy 
bonds of marriage. 

No other soul was present, except the two 
necessary witnesses. The solemn ceremonial was 


EXPIATION 


3C9 


indeed a sacrament, as two devout hearts felt, too 
sacred for stranger eyes, and the words the priest 
addressed to them, never faded from their memo- 
ries. When they entered the carriage to leave the 
church, he folded his arms about her and gave her 
his first husbandly kiss with the words: ^‘Now I 
am content, for the first time in my life.’’ 

“And I ara happier than I ever supposed one 
could be in this world, darling,” she answered as'^ 
she laid her head upon his shoulder, and lifted up 
to him her eyes swimming in happy tears. 

The next day they went into the country to find 
the sweet new home they had pictured in their 
minds. All places looked lovely to them in the 
light of their happiness, and they were not long 
in finding it. A beautiful cottage on a retired 
street, in a little village not far away, seemed to 
them the ideal place, and they purchased it, and 
began their new life there. It was daintily finished 
and they furnished it as daintily, and the large 
yard with its wealth of noble trees soon bloomed 
with rare flowers which filled the soft air with 
fragrance. Near by was the church where they 
worshiped together, in unity of spirit, and upon 
whose rites they attended with most sedulous de- 
votion. 

Morning and evening found Ernest kneeling 
24 


370 


FENCING 1VITH SHADOIVS 


there, and no gifts seemed too great for him to 
bestow upon it, and no requirement that it made 
of him, otherwise than easy to be borne. From 
the prodigal to the devotee, the change had been 
radical, and it was permanent. 

Old temptations had no power over him. He 
lived above them in a higher atmosphere, and they 
could cast no spell about him. All the poetry of 
the man’s nature centered in devotion now. He 
called back the forgotten music of his youth, and 
could be heard playing upon the organ in the 
church for hours at a time, the grand old masses 
which have come down from the far away age of 
piety and trust, joining with his voice at times in 
the wondrous strains. 

Beautiful children are born to him now, upon 
whose education he expends the most thoughtful 
care. 

To Violet he is the lover of her youth, with all 
the added gentleness and thoughtful care, which 
have come of the change of the man’s nature. 
She lives a quiet and peaceful life, bound up in 
home and husband and children, and the world 
about her knows little of her — nothing of her past. 
She is perfectly contented with the good which 
has come to her, and asks nothing more c i fate, 
but a sweet continuance of that which now blesses 
her. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


THE STIR OF PREPARATION 

The “Palace of ArP^ is undergoing a complete 
transformation in these days. Workmen are in 
every room but one, renovating, polishing, em- 
bellishing, and the exterior is being made more 
picturesque at every point. Gables, and dormors, 
and little hanging balconies, are appearing in ex- 
pected places, and the ivy which half covers it, is 
being trained here and there to produce more 
pleasing effects. The moss-grown roof alone re- 
mains untouched. 

“You could never reproduce that,” says Mr. Au- 
brey, “and as long as it keeps the rain out it shall 
remain just as it is.” There is one room which he 
allows no one else to enter. This is Lizelle’s 
boudoir, and he does everything here with his own 
hand. Day after day, he has spent in decorating 
it. It is a bower of roses. “She gave up her 
wish to paint roses at a word from me,” he 
thought, as soon as he began to dream of bringing 
her to the old house “and she shall live among 
371 


872 


FENCING IVITH SHAD01V5 


such a wealth of them that she can never regret 
the sacrifice./^ So all about the delicately tinted 
walls he paints roses, roses, roses, the most won- 
derful ever seen. They trail over the windows in 
matchless masses, they wreathe the doorways, 
they encircle the ceiling, and every panelled space 
is a study of some peculiar rare variety. 

He scorned all decorative art before, leaving it 
to the amateurs he so despises, but now he revels 
in his work. He cannot make it beautiful enough 
to please him, though he knows it is a dream of 
exquisite workmanship. It is his secret upon which 
he locks the door every time he leaves it. Lizelle’s 
eyes shall be the first to see it, and not until she is 
brought home as a bride to the dear old dwelling. 
Mr. Armstrong is often there now, helping to plan 
the practical part of the improvements, and enjoy- 
ing with unbounded enthusiasm the happiness of his 
friend. 

“I don’t wonder you’re in a hurry,’’ he says this 
morning, as Aubrey is planning to shorten even 
the brief interval which he has ‘allowed to elapse 
between the engagement and the marriage. 

“You waited so long before you thought of being 
happy, and having a home like a Christian gentle- 
man, that you have no time to spare. Don’t you 
regret your lost years?” 


THE STIR OF PREPARATION 


373 


“No, for I could not have had Lizelle before, 
and I never wanted any one else. I am going to 
make up for lost time now. The last year has 
contained about all the happiness I have had so 
far in life — that is real positive enjoyment — for of 
course I have not been particularly unhappy these 
last years. And if the re-awakening of my nature 
could afford so much delight, in the tender bud, 
what will the full flower be, man.?’^ 

“I think it will be the rarest blossom that ever 
bloomed, if you insist upon the metaphor. You 
have won the dearest child in all the world. No 
nature so entirely sweet as hers, has ever been laid 
open to my eyes. You are a fortunate fellow, Au- 
brey, I hope you know how fortunate. 

“Do not I.^ I lie awake at night thinking of it, 
and wondering how it could have happened. I am 
so old and so unattractive to youth and beauty. 

“I don’t quite see how you make that out, when 
the rarest beauty of the day falls down and wor- 
ships you at sight.’^ 

“Oh, it was merely my lucky chance. . She had 
such a warm little heart that she must worship 
somebody. It had been starved so long that it 
took the first food offered. I petted her merely 
as a child at first, the sweetest I had ever seen, 
and her heart expanded in the warmth, just as a 


374 


FENCING fVITH SHADOWS 


flower does in the sun. It startled me when I 
found what I had done, for I had repeated to myself 
so long, the old fiction that my heart was dead, and 
turned to dust, that I really believed it, and was 
by no means sure that my tenderness for her, was 
the deep, strong, love of a man for a woman, which 
one must have if he would marry. But I did not 
need to ask myself the question many times, 
thank God.’’ 

“You have justified my opinion of you, Aubrey. 
I never believed any of the rubbish you talked 
about being past the age for love. I was sure you 
would yet love some one, in far deeper earnest, 
than in your callow youth, and when Lizelle first 
came I was pretty sure your hour was at hand.” 

“And you uttered no word of warning.? Just left 
me to leap into the arms of Fate. You are a friend 
to have.” Mr. Armstrong laughed, and took up 
his hat, saying: 

“I suppose you will be coming over after a 
while. Victoria came up last night.” 

“Yes. You need not fear that I shall lose a day. 
But I must work awhile first. Things go at a 
snail’s pace here. I will come to tea — though I 
hope it will be coffee. My cook can brew the vil- 
est decoction of that heavenly beverage of any 
one now in the flesh. You would never have the 


THE STIR OF PREPARATION 


m 


slightest suspicion of what the infernal stuff is 
made. I think Shakspeare would call it hell- 
broth, and I wish that I were Shakspeare to claim 
the privilege of thus describing it. I shall have 
to give up strong language when I marry, I sup- 
pose, Armstrong?’^ /- 

“Well I think Lizelle would be rather startled 
if you described the coffee in a Shakspearian man- 
ner, I must confess.” 

“But there will be no need then. Lizelle will 
be a perfect housekeeper and home-maker I know, 
and I shall never be obliged to throw the coffeepot 
out of the window as I did this morning, and see 
her afterward groping about in the bushes for it, 
as I did the Frau Katrina. I laughed till I burst 
all my buttons off at the pathetic sight. There 
are two hundred pounds of her, Armstrong, enough 
for two lithe and active servants, and I have been 
seriously meditating on splitting her. If the coffee 
isn’t better I think I shall.” 

“Well I’ll tell Lizelle, so that she may know 
what to expect in case of domestic failures,” 
laughed Mr. Armstrong as he strode away. Late 
in the afternoon Aubrey laid down his brushes, 
made his toilet, and started for Klosterheim. Half- 
way there he met Lizelle, who had come out to 
meet him. She carried an immense bunch of 


376 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


trilliums and waved it over her head as he ap- 
proached. 

‘‘Oh, you have found my treasure!” he exclaimed. 
“I have been saving up that bank of trilliums, to 
show you, for a week. Come back and show 
them to me now, instead. You’ve defrauded me 
most basely, what restitution will you make.^” 

He took that which pleased him best, and she 
made no resistance, but dining to his arm, climbed, 
down into the deep ravine once more, whose rudely 
terraced banks were white with the regal blossoms. 

“Talk of flower-shows — whoever saw a flower- 
show like this, before.!^” said Aubrey as he waded 
knee-deep in the sea of dark green leaves, flecked 
here and there with the foam of white flowers. 
Lizelle ran to and fro, crying out with delight 
every moment as one fair blossom after another 
tossed in the breeze, and showed its inner cup of 
veined transparence. Lizelle had never seen the 
spring flowers before, and it was a keen delight to 
Mr. Aubrey to introduce her to them one by one. 

Mandrakes were here too, in great profusion, 
and their intoxicating fragrance made the air 
heavy with its cloying sweet. Goldenseal and 
bloodroot were not yet quite gone from shady 
places, and the delicate ferns were springing up 
everywhere. The wild plum trees were globes of 


THE STIR OF PREPARATION 


377 


miraculous splendor, and the thornapples equally 
wonderful, in the magnificent profusion of their 
flowers, and even more dainty in their shell-pink 
hue. May was surely at high tide to-day, and 
prophesied of June with every breath. 

“We should have had the wedding in May, dear, 
then we could have come down here, and stood in 
the midst of the flowers. What a canopy that 
thornapple tree would have been, to stand under, 
and what an orchestra the birds up above. We 
are belated pilgrims, a month behind the proper 
time of year.’’ 

“But the roses at Klosterheim will be out then,” 
said Lizelle. 

“Oh, the roses — the roses — there is nothing like 
the roses for you I see, mignonne — well June will 
do very well — though I shall always regret the 
apple blossoms myself,” fastening a spray on her 
dress — and one in his own button-hole. 

Then they walked on and did not reach Kloster- 
heim until the hour for tea was long past. What 
else could be expected of youth — and love — and 
May } 

Victoria came down the walk to meet them. She 
was a little thinner and paler than a year ago, but 
her beauty though chastened was as pleasing as 
ever. She wore a violet silk dress whose corsage 
was adorned with lilies of the valley. 


378 


FENCING IVITH SHADOlVS 


“Why do you wear my favorite colors, Sister 
Victoria,” was Aubrey’s greeting, “is it in frater- 
nal welcome?” 

“I welcome you certainly, Mr. Aubrey,” she said 
offering her hand, “and feel very rich to have 
gained a sister and brother all within the year.” 

Mr. Aubrey ignored the proffered hand, but 
bestowed a brotherly kiss instead, saying: “I can- 
not thank you enough for having brought this lit- 
tle sister within the orbit of my vision. But for 
you I should have lived my lonely life out in the 
old way no doubt, and it was not a life worth living 
I assure you. Lizelle has set the old slow tune to 
a livelier measure.” 

“I cannot tell you how glad I am, Mr. Aubrey. 
I hope you will both be very happy.” 

“You must be happy to be home once more. 
Does it not seem like being translated into a new 
sphere? The hideous city is more repellant than 
ever in the spring.” 

“Oh, it was so hard to stay there through the 
early spring. Even in March we have some sun- 
shiny days, that are so delightful at Klosterheim. 

I grudged every one that passed. I wanted to see 
the river when it was a torrent, and the woods when 
the little rills were running through them, and to 
watch for the first robin, and the first dandelion, 


THE STIR OF PREPARATION ^ 


379 


to search for pussy-willows before the snow was 
fairly gone, and to do all the dear old things I 
used to delight in, when a child. I had to stay 
and lose it all. But I do not think I canever do 
it again. I must live in the country, if I am to have 
a happy life.’^ 

She seemed to lose herself in thought here, and 
said no more. 

The old question was rising in her mind, how 
far she had a right to carry her desire for individ- 
ual enjoyment, for personal good, in this world, 
and how far it was necessary to sacrifice that de- 
sire, in order to do the work she desired to do for 
others. The passion for philanthropy which filled 
her whole soul, at times, was held in check by 
the natural desire of free and buoyant youth for 
the gratification of its own aspirations, and the 
fulfilment of its wishes. She desired to love 
others better than herself, but the natural and 
healthful selfishness of human nature, stood in 
the way, and contested every inch of the ground. 
Just now she had persuaded herself that only 
through a normal and happy individual experience, 
could she hope to do the highest work in the 
world, which was demanded of her, and she had 
attained a calm serenity through that thought. 
Unresting yet unhasting, had become her watch- 
word. 


380 


FENCING IVITM SHADOIVS 


“The years of God are many/^ she had learned 
to say to herself, and He smiles at the impatience 
of poor puny man. She had sought to gain a 
higher horizon, to look out upon wider spaces, and 
not as she had been inclined to do, fix her eyes 
entirely upon the dark continents of human guilt 
and woe. Outside of these were the green pastures 
and the still waters of human love, and gratitude, 
and joy. There were the heights of life to take 
note of, as well as its black depths, and more 
sublime they grew to her day by day — those heights * 
of generous love and trust, of self sacrifice, of 
earnest endeavor, of mutual helpfulness, of sublime 
resignation. 

These were the real things of life, and she would 
fix her gaze upon them, rather than on poverty 
and disease and crime. Not that she would ignore 
these, or remit her efforts for their alleviation, but 
she would live above them, not on their level. 
Thus only could she be fitted to carry out any great 
work. She must be that large free beautiful thing, 
toward which she bade the world of outcasts look, 
or she could never draw them up to her. Not in 
mere material improvements must she hope. 
Though she did hope to multiply the facilities for 
higher living among these people, yet outside and 
above all these mere facilities, there must be that 


} 


THE STIR OF PREPARATION 


381 


quickening of the inner life, which should make 
these facilitiesof some avail. 

She had recognized the truth of Mrs. Browning's 
words: 

“Plant a poet’s word even, deep enough 

In any man’s breast, looking presently 

For offshoots, you have done more for the man, 

Than if you dressed him in a broadcloth coat | 

And warmed his Sunday pottage at your fire.” 

She felt deeply now that if you could put a 
thought beneath the rags, it would be more effec- 
tive in removing them permanently, than any 
amount of bestowed garments; that if you could 
rouse the soul of a man against the vices that beset 
him, it would effect a greater transformation than 
the removal of all temptation ; that if some lofty 
aspiration could be kindled into life within their 
hearts, it would be more potent in their renovation, 
than all the outside aid she could ever hope to 
prepare for them. A year could not be counted 
lost which had brought wisdom such as this, to 
one so young. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


THE HEART OF FRIENDSHIP 

Richard Savage was the only friend whom Mr. 
Webster had notified of his expected return home, 
and the only one who waited in supreme impa- 
tience the arrival of the western train that May 
evening. Richard was greatly rejoiced at the re- 
turn of his friend, and was looking forward to their 
renewed intercourse with lively anticipations of 
pleasure and profit. Mr. Webster was quite as 
impatient to meet him, and the two clasped hands 
with deep feeling. When seated in the carriage 
to drive to Mr. Webster’s rooms, which Richard 
had opened, warmed, and put in order, with great 
care, without waiting for preliminary speech of 
any sort, Mr. Webster exclaimed: 

“How are my friends — how is Miss Armstrong, 
Savage 

“Miss Armstrong is well, and has just left the 
city for Klosterheim.’’ 

“Do you know — can you tell me — if she has 
ever heard any scandalous tales of me, among 
382 


THE HEART OF FRIENDSHIP 


383 


the people down there. I am beside myself with 
anxiety upon the point. 

“Yes — she has heard what you fear, and believed 
it for many months. She herself told me that 
was the cause of her treatment of you last autumn. 
But she is undeceived now, and all will be well I 
am sure.” 

“And is the city ringing with that horrible story, 
Savage? Will the boys hoot at me in the street, 
and the newspapers print my misdeeds in the larg- 
est type they have?” said Mr. Webster, breathing 
hard, and clenching his hands in agonizing sus- 
pense. 

“No, Mr. Webster, I think no soul has heard 
the story but Victoria and I. Indeed I am sure of 
it. Violet Lee had no friends, and she had a 
pride that protected her from the curiosity of 
strangers.” 

“Can it be possible? I have been almost crazed 
with apprehension, since I discovered the man 
who dragged my name in the dust in that terrible 
manner. You would scarcely believe that I have 
forgiven the man, and had him for a traveling com- 
panion from Montana, where he had nearly perished 
in one of their terrible spring storms.” 

“It was a hard thing to forgive, Mr. Webster. I 
fear I could not have compassed grace enough 


384 


FENCING mTH SHADOIVS 


for that. Though I have forgiven the ruffian who 
assaulted me, or say that I have, I don’t think I 
could travel with him in a parlor car from Montana. 
I should be afraid to try it anyway. And your 
wrong was so much greater than mine. I can im- 
agine you had a struggle.’^ 

‘‘You are right. I was murderously angry at 
the man when he confessed the act. But his con- 
fession disarmed me. If I had come upon the 
knowledge in any other way, I should not have 
been able to command myself I fear. But the ab- 
ject remorse of the man was pitiful, and I forgave 
him — not realizing at the time the full extent of 
the outrage. I did not think of Miss Armstrong, 
and its possible effect upon her for some time. 
What must the poor girl have thought. It is mad- 
dening. And to bear it for months in silence. 
Why did she not give me a chance to refute it.^^ 
Oh, why was she so easily deceived 

“She is entirely unsophisticated in such things. 
She had the girl’s word for it, and never thought 
to question it. If she had but told her father, he 
would have denounced it as a monstrous lie, as I 
did the moment she revealed it to me. When I 
did that, for the first time, she recognized the pos- 
sibility of a deception.” 

“If she had lived in a lawyer’s office a few years, 


X 


THE HEAR T OF FRIENDSHIP 385 

or ever been a diligent reader of the newspapers, 
she would not have been so unsuspecting. The 
use of other people’s names is getting to be a very 
common crime, and one that deserves a severer 
punishment than it receives now. And you are 
sure. Savage, that all will be right now 

“Yes, I am sure.^’ 

“Thank you a thousand times for what you say, 
and for what you have done. I feel that I can 
never repay you. Tell me now about yourself.” 

“Well, I am the busiest man alive, and all my 
works are flourishing. I have a good many irons 
in the fire, but I keep them all hot. I am quite 
strong again now, and feel as if I could perform 
the labors of Hercules.” 

“That is gratifying indeed. I am glad you Are 
a stalwart saint. Savage; I hate a flabby and 
nerveless reformer. Nearly all I have ever known 
were dyspeptics of the highest degree, worshipful 
masters, or whatever they dub them. The schemes 
of a man who cannot digest his dinner, are not apt 
to be very practicable I find. They threaten con- 
flagration to the world, through their watchword 
phrases, and unscrupulous logic rushing on into 
impossible practice. Of no one is so clear a head 
demanded as of him who would change the exist- 
ing order.” 

25 


B86 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


‘‘Yes, we are always in danger of jeopardizing 
the ideal good we long for, by following deceptive 
phantoms of reform. You can judge of them 
pretty accurately, however, I am learning, by their 
too great promises. Real reforms have some sort 
of restraint in their very aims. They do not ex- 
pect to alter the whole aspect of nature by bring- 
ing about a certain specific change. In this selfish 
world they do not dream of spontaneous brother- 
hood, and of each man preferring his fellow, be- 
fore himself. Of all toiling, and none toiling over- 
much.’^ 

“Nor of bringing into this lustful and undeveloped 
world, their lofty dream of a love shackled by no 
vows, and held to family ties only by its own 
strength. They legislate for human nature as they 
find it, sordid, base, and low, but capable of higher 
development in the lapse of time — -not of that 
ideal human nature of which poets dream.” 

“But the dream must always go before the fact, 
Mr. Webster; and are not those very dreams of 
lofty souls the prophesy which will bring its own 
fulfilment.?” 

“Largely so I hope. What ought to be, may 
be, I think, but you and I will not see it.” 

“No, but it is a great privilege to work toward 
what ought to be, §veii if w^ fall far short of it, a§ 


THE HEART OF FRIENDSHIP 


387 


we surely must. This urgency and yearning of 
the heart for greater good than we conceive possi- 
ble to-day, is undivertible. You cannot make the 
heart contented with everything we can yet 
achieve.” 

“No, but we must school the heart to be con- 
tent to take the necessary steps between it, and 
its object. We cannot mount on wings, however 
much we may yearn to do so, but must climb the 
ladder of evolution round by round. Then sensible 
reformers see this; but the dreamers would kick 
the ladder from under them after mounting a few 
steps, and seeing the fair promise up above.” 

“I am something of a dreamer myself I think, 
Mr. Webster, but I have had you and Mr. Arm- 
strong for a corrective force, to keep my dreams 
within reason. I am more fortunate than others. 
But even within the limitations which you set me 
I have high hopes, which make me very happy. 
If the years hold out I shall do a work that will 
raise many men to a higher level.” 

“You shall have a chance to try at least. How 
are the finances.^ You must have all the money 
you want for a handsome support. Don’t hesitate 
to tell me what you need.” 

“I am amply supplied with your first gift. Don’t 
try to spoil me, Mr. Webster, with over pay.” 


388 


FENCING IVITH SH/IDOIVS 


‘‘Not 1. I know too well how the best work is 
done. No one has ever seen strong work done for 
pay. In these matters the higher the salary the 
poorer the work is the rule. What is done for 
love is well done, and that alone. You do not 
get a ‘Paradise Lost’ by offering a prize; nor can 
the Abolitionists get an ‘Uncle Tom’ by hiring 
their best man to produce it. Helen Hunt did not 
write the ‘Century of Dishonor,’ or ‘Ramona,’ for 
money. There are some books she did write for 
money on the market and, you can see the differ- 
ence in the quality without putting on eye-glasses.’^ 

“That is certainly true of literature, and of art 
also it has been true. In spiritual leadership the 
fact is even more marked. From pampered 
priests we have learned to expect little. The 
mighty watchwords of progress have all been 
coined from the heart’s blood of struggling men, 
too much in earnest to stipulate for pay.” 

“It is safe to conclude that no inspired work of 
any kind ever was done for the reward offered. A 
Shakspeare writes because he must, his riotous 
imagination deluges him with conceptions which 
must be embodied — nobody needs to bid for them, 
he must secure relief by expression — that is all 
there is of it. Michael Angelo does not wait for 
an order. If he sees a blank church wall he longs 


THE HEAR T Of FRIENDS EIP 389 

to cover it with the teeming fancies of his burning 
brain, and he lavishes himself in immortal color, 
dashed on freely wherever there is the need. Not 
thus Messonier. But which think you will live the 
longer Burns sang his songs as the lark sings. 
The melody was simply uncontainable and must 
burst forth in one case as in the other. Tennyson, 
these later years, bargains before he sings, for a 
guinea a line. The difference is what you might 
expect.” 

“The inspired philanthropists point the same 
moral. John Howard did not wait for a govern- 
ment commission to visit European prisons; or 
Dorothy Dix the insane of two continents. Abo- 
lition orators were not paid a hundred dollars a 
night as a rule, and Garrison did not find the ‘Liber- 
ator’ a paying investment in the early days of his 
crusade.” 

“No, but the fashions of the world change, and 
the work of the reformer grows easier as we go on. 
The need for martyrdom has largely passed away, 
else I have no doubt martyrs would still be forth- 
coming. The heroic has not died out of human 
nature, although the calls for its exercise are not 
in the same lines as formerly. I think you have 
it in you, Savage, to do the work of the fathers in 
their way, if that were necessary. But I am glad 


390 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


it is not necessary. You will still be tried suffic- 
iently to prove your quality, and I think you will 
do just as good work though you don’t starve in 
doing it, notwithstanding all we’ve been saying. 
Nevertheless I don’t think we could get such work 
as you will do, by bidding for it. 

“I shall go up to Klosterheim to-morrow. 
Would you like to bear me company.?” 

‘‘I think not this time. I wish you all good 
luck, my dear friend. You have heard perhaps 
about Aubrey and Lizelle.?” 

‘‘Not a word.” 

“They are to be married next month, and the 
‘Palace of Art’ is being transformed into a home.” 

“Impossible. I should never have thought of 
Aubrey as playing the part of Romney Leigh.” 

“But Lizelle can scarcely be regarded as a 
daughter of the people now. She has been set 
high by fortune, and she is capable of filling the 
new niche. She has not half the sympathy with 
the people she has left, that Victoria has. I have 
been so much surprised at it.” 

“You should not have been. She has a much 
lighter nature. But she has a warm heart, and 
any individual case of suffering brought to her 
notice, would call out ready sympathy and he^p. 
But I am surprised at Aubrey’s infatuation, though 


THE HEAR T OF FRIENDSHIP 391 

the child is very beautiful and charming. It is 
great news to me. I tried to think Aubrey might 
admire Victoria, and she him.^’ 

^‘There was little danger of that. She is too 
intellectual for him, and he too much a trifler for 
her.’^ 

Though Richard liked to talk to Mr. Webster of 
Victoria in this fashion, and to listen to his friend’s 
new plans and hopes, yet it was hard for him, and 
as he walked home that night, his heart was very 
heavy, and a sense of his own loneliness and deso- 
lation accompanied him to his solitary chamber, 
which he felt would be with him during life. His 
nature was one singularly in need of affection and 
companionship, and a great longing often filled 
him for a warm home nest, with a gentle mate 
within it. But he plunged into work and forgot 
his disquietude as soon as might be, never nursing 
his disappointment, but trying bravely to live it 
down in honest manly fashion. 

He kept himself cheerful throughout the whole 
trial of learning that Victoria was not for him. He 
battled with melancholy and unrest as a valiant 
soldier battles. He simply trod them under his 
feet, and looked beyond all these personal griefs, 
into the clear light of the universal good, for which 
he was striving, and would always strive while 
strength remained. 


B92 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


He never hoped to do quite the work he could 
have done sustained and strengthened by loving 
hands. But he would do all he could. His whole 
being was pledged to that. 

Wearied out as Mr. Webster was, he found him- 
self unable to sleep for long hours, so excited was 
he over the prospect of to-morrow’s interview. 
He pictured to himself what Victoria must have 
thought of him during those long months of mis- 
conception; how she must have despised him, 
what indignation she must have felt ]at his daring 
to approach her with such a crime upon his con- 
science. His ideal of manhood had always been a 
lofty one, Victoria’s own could scarcely have been 
higher, and to be placed in this false light in her 
eyes was a most galling humiliation. 

Not even the thought that he had been vindi- 
cated, and that she no longer regarded him in the 
light of a criminal, could make him forget his 
wrongs, and he tossed in bitter disquietude till the 
daylight penetrated to his room. Then he had a 
little troubled sleep, and rose up impatient to be- 
gin the new day, the day of Fate for him. 

Up the river once more in the glorious air and 
sunlight of a fair May day, gazing with all the old 
joy upon all the fair scenes spread before him. He 
remembered a dark day of a few months before, 


THE HEART OF FRIENDSHIP 


393 


when he came down amid all this beauty unmind- 
ful and unresponsive, with an unaccustomed gloom 
in his heart, 

It seems years since that bitter time, so much 
of deep experience has gone into the days, so 
many hours of wakeful pondering have lengthened 
the long winter nights. His had been a prosper- 
ous, brilliant, and happy life. He knew little of 
the deep heartache which many souls suffer all 
their life long. He had no thwarted ambitions to 
embitter his career; he was unfamiliar with the 
losses which strip some men of all they prize in 
life; no great wrong rankled in his breast to pierce 
through all seeming outward good with its black 
blight ; there was no hidden shame to rise up like 
a ghost at every banquet table of life; no uncon- 
genial toil hampered and hindered him as it 
hampers and hinders so many strong souls in the 
race of life; none of the familiar sorrows of life 
had been his daily companions, as they are the 
companions of most of us. Almost for the first 
time in life had he felt thwarted by destiny when 
Victoria had refused his love, and denied him her 
own. But he had not found misfortune easier to 
bear than other men. All other good seemed 
turned to ill, when he was denied the supreme 
good, which alone gave value to his existence 
now, it seemed. 


394 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


He had chafed in this new harness of opposition, 
and almost rebelled at him who held the reins. 
The wide vista of the future presented little that 
was pleasant to his view. He did not care to go 
forward and explore its unknown paths alone. 
This had been his mood during all the months 
since he passed here before. 

But to-day his heart felt young again. The too 
familiar heaviness was gone. Buoyant as a bird 
he sprang from the boat when it touched the land- 
ing, and walked rapidly toward the bridge across 
the ravine. Just before reaching it he saw Vic- 
toria in the wood below, and turned his steps to- 
ward her with a heart that beat with joyous antici- 
pation. She wore the familiar straw hat with its 
wild roses, and one of the dresses he knew so well. 
She heard his steps behind her and turned to- 
ward him with a face that was a glowing welcome 
in itself. He bounded forward to meet the ex- 
tended hands, and clasped her closely in his arms. 
There was no need of words. The shower of kisses 
was enough. But when she had drawn away 
from him at last, and looked up into his eyes 
through happy tears, he said: “I am sure that 
you cannot doubt me now,’^ and she answered: 

‘‘Forgive me — I will never doubt you again. 
To doubt you were to die.^^ 


~ V.‘ 





I 


\ 


THE HEART OF FRIENDSHIP 


395 


They wandered long in the happy wood that 
golden afternoon, and she heard all the tale of his 
wanderings and his return, of Ernest Early and 
his purpose to lead a new life with Violet, which 
seemed to her almost the happiest news of all, of 
his own plans for the future to which she said no 
word of denial, and of many things of which we 
do not need to tell. He had found once more the 
Fortunate Isles of life, and forgot almost at once 
the inhospitable sands upon which he had been 
sojourning for so long a time. And she too had 
heard a voice from the great deeps of heavenly 
space which said — rejoice. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


THE FULFILMENT OF DREAMS 

The preparations at the “Palace of Art’^ were 
all complete when the June day arrived which was 
to witness 

“The one far off divine event 
To which the whole creation moves’* 

as Mr. Aubrey, not irreverently, had called it. The 
house was as beautiful as artistic taste could make 
it, and Mr. Aubrey went over it again and again 
in smiling satisfaction, dreaming of the fair days 
to come. 

At Klosterheim all was in festal order too. The 
rose garden had done its best, and the house was 
a dream of floral splendor. The magnificent 
scheme of color was enough to satisfy even Mr. 
Aubrey’s prodigal taste, and his ecstasies were 
very pleasing to Lizelle and Victoria who had 
done all, with their own hands. 

Only a few friends were present, as Mr. Aubrey 
had autocratically decided that weddings and 
funerals should always be the most exclusive of 
assemblies, as you could not admit the populace 
396 


THE FULFILMENT OF D RE /I MS 


397 


either to your sacred joys or your more sacred 
griefs. 

Lizelle was fairer than ever in floating robes of 
tulle, fringed with lilies of the valley, and draped 
with garlands of the same, Mr. Aubrey objecting 
decidedly to the conventional dress of a bride, and 
having his way in this, as in all else with the youth- 
ful bride. 

Mr. Armstrong too was his cordial supporter in 
all things, for he loved this friend with a love like 
that of a woman, and rejoiced with all his heart 
in this marriage, which would draw them even 
nearer together throughout life. Victoria and Mr. 
Webster were radiant in happiness to-day, and 
Mrs. Armstrong very happy in Lizelle’s good for- 
tune, but a little sad also in her own great loss, 
which was so soon to be followed by the further 
loss of Victoria. “It is the right, and natural, and 
happy thing,” she had said to herself all this 
morning, “I will rejoice in it, though it will leave 
me so lonely and so lost. I would not even defer 
it for a day if I could. One day of youth and joy 
and love is priceless. Let them hoard it into 
the treasury of their lives while they may.” 

When the wedding and the breakfast were over 
Aubrey and Lizelle entered the carriage which was 
at the door, and drove off over the hills upon their 


398 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


wedding journey. No crowded trains, or curious 
passengers for them, no boats, no heat, no noise, 
no vulgar advertising of their new found bliss 
Only quiet green shaded roads and country fields, 
only wayside brooks, and views from lofty hill- 
tops, only the deep vaulted sky over them, and the 
v;ild flowers by the roadside. Only themselves 
and their sweet new joy. Their journey lasted a 
week, and every spot they visited became a sacred 
shrine. Once a year thereafter for many years 
they drove over the same roads, and stopped at 
the same places, renewing acquaintance with every 
fair spot that had charmed them on their wedding 
journey. 

When they returned to the ^Talace of Art,’^ it 
was into the boudoir with its roses, that Lizelle 
was first conducted, and this was her favorite nook 
ever after. The house seemed to her a miracle of 
beauty, and even when years had passed, its 
charms had not palled upon her. When three 
beautiful children ran about with her through its 
rooms, she was still as bright and gay and buoyant 
as ever, and her husband as fond and foolish a 
lover as in the old sweet days at Klosterheim. 

When October had clothed the world again in 
its garments of flame, there was a repetition of 
the happy June scene, for then Mr, Webster and 


THE FULFILMENT OF DREAMS 


399 


Victoria also came into their kingdom. The wed- 
ding was a little more stately than the first, the 
feeling a little graver, perhaps, upon the part of 
parents and of bride, but there was the same deep 
love, and reverence, and trust, which had made 
the first ceremonial a sacrament, and that of itself, 
would bring a sufficient blessing. 

Victoria’s book had been written during these 
last months, and was first given to the world upon 
her wedding day. She wished to close up that 
chapter in her experience, before entering upon 
another she had said, and she had worked faith- 
fully upon her record of suffering, until all was 
told. The book roused the interest she had hoped, 
in many quarters. Thousands read it and learned 
for the first time what was going on in the dark 
and dismal streets they knew only by rumor. 
Many began to think about the ugly facts for them- 
selves, and some there were whose thoughts took 
form in works of rescue and effective aid. It 
stirred the dark pool whose depths it sounded, and 
the widening circles of its waves reached on for 
many years. Others took up her work of scien- 
tific investigation, others still, branched out on 
new lines, and an interest in ways and means of 
human helpfulness was awakened which would 
never wholly die out. From her beautiful country 


400 


FENCING JVITH SHADOWS 


home she watched all this with grateful eyes. The 
duties of that home for a few years prevented her 
from taking any public part in the great work. 
Husband and children were the first care, and 
these absorbed her strength. The sweet hospi- 
talities, and loving ministrations of her home, so 
filled her heart, that perhaps she grew a little 
selfish in her joy, and allowed the memory of what 
she had seen to grow a little dim, and to pain her 
less than it had done at first. But she is the con- 
tinued inspiration of her husband, who has taken 
upon himself the work she felt called upon to do, 
and is actively serving in the great brigade of 
Human Helpfulness. 

The warm heart and the sublime purpose are 
still hers, and at some later day when home cares 
are not so pressing, she may emerge as many noble 
women do, to take up the work for others with 
renewed strength and zeal. From the safe glad 
rear to the terrible van, duty may again summon 
her, and when she hears that call we may be sure 
she will obey. 

Richard Savage is often an honored guest in 
this new home. For some years he remained what 
he called an endowed missionary, doing such work 
as we have hinted at already. His labors among 
the people were very successful. Perhaps the best 


THE FULFILMENT OF DREAMS 


401 


thing he did was to train a band of young men 
who should continue his work, when he passed out 
of it into other activities connected with the up- 
lifting of the people. This he did when the con- 
viction that he could do larger and more effective 
work had fully taken possession of his mind. For 
some time before he reached this conclusion, Mr. 
Webster had urged upon him the thought, that 
in accepting an editorial position which was open 
to him, he could exert a larger influence, and ex- 
ercise greater power for the public good, than in 
his narrower if more immediate contact with the 
people. 

When he became fully convinced of this he ac- 
cepted the offered place, and entered upon a new 
and congenial life. He had already been recog- 
nized as a powerful writer, and he was possessed 
of influence from the first, an influence which is 
increasing day by day. In the rough school of 
experience he has tested many theories, and modi- 
fied many crude opinions. The one thing in him 
which remains unchanged, is his warm interest in 
the welfare of the people, and his willingness to 
spend himself for their improvement. 

Any cause which seems to him likely to advance 
their interests he espouses. Whatever he feels 

will injure them he opposes^ no matter what Ipack- 

26 


402 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


ing of respectability or use, the scheme may have. 
He is in reality what so many demagogues like to 
call themselves, the champion of the people’s 
rights. Amid the corruptions of politics, and the 
temptations of place, he stands firm in his integ- 
rity, and tests all new schemes unfolded to his 
view by parties or by men, by the one question: is 
it right To him come the people with their 
wrongs, knowing he will expose them to public 
gaze, and seek to redress them. To him the poor, 
with their poverty, feeling that sympathy, and if 
possible relief, will be forthcoming. To him the 
tempted, with their temptations, seeking the sup- 
port of another’s strength, which is never denied. 
To him the hopeful with their great new schemes 
of promised good, are sure of a kindly hearing, and 
an encouraging word if the scheme has a found- 
ation of common sense, but of gentle argument 
and loving opposition, if impracticable or visionary. 

All these consume his time, which is his most 
valuable possession, but he never says them nay, 
only works the harder when they are gone. 

But for folly and cant he has a more repellant 
front. He cannot waste himself upon either, with 
the great work he has in hand. 

Sometimes he addresses great assemblies of men, 
and his fame as an orator is increasing year by year. 


THE FULFILMENT OF DREAMS 


403 


It is the work he most delights in, and to which 
many urge him to devote his life. But he feels the 
greater power of the writt-en word with its larger 
audience, and he is willing to miss the inspiration 
of the present throng, to be able to influence the 
absent multitude, by the quiet pen work of mo- 
notonous days and night. 

He is perhaps as happy as a thoughtful man can 
be in this world. He has had no great personal 
grief, and he has learned to subdue his sympathies 
within bearable bounds. The one sweet sorrow 
of his youth, has never been wholly a sorrow. It 
is still a pleasure to visit his friend, to see Vic- 
toria with her children aboi^t her, to be sure of her 
friendship, of her sympathy, her high regard. His 
love has always been a ‘‘devotion to something 
afar from the sphere of our sorrow.” He never 
came near enough to her to feel that deep sense of' 
personal disappointment which filled Mr. Web- 
ster's mind when he felt that she was not for him. 
He thinks of his feeling, now, as of a beautiful 
dream, which was known to be a dream even 
while its phantasmagoria was passing before his 
eyes. The desire of the moth for the star may not 
have passed away, but the pain of the unattain- 
able is not intense, and there is a kind of poetic 
joy blent with his sadness now, from which he 
would not part, for any more solid good» 


404 


FENCING IVITH SHADOIVS 


Victoria has never had a suspicion of his feel- 
ing, and Mr. Webster was himself ignorant of it 
for a long time. Since he has suspected it, he 
has loved him more deeply than before, and 
striven harder than ever to pile his benefits upon 
him. The friendship of the two men grows deeper 
and stronger year by year, and is considered by 
both as among the most precious possessions of 
their lives. And each would say of the other, 
with reference to himself, as time goes on: 


•‘The circuits of thine orbit round 
A higher height, a deeper deep.’* 


THE END 


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